"How should you ?" Her glance fell and her voice trembled.
"I know enough," he said.

He turned coldly from her and knelt again beside Israel Kafka.
He raised the pale head and supported it upon his knee, and gazed anxiously into the face, raising the lids with his finger as though to convince himself that the man was not dead.

Indeed there seemed to be but little life left in him as he lay there with outstretched arms and twisted fingers, scarcely breathing.

In such a place, without so much as the commonest restorative to aid him, the Wanderer saw that he had but little chance of success.
Unorna stood aside, not looking at the two men.

It was nothing to her whether Kafka lived or died.