Her dress was black, and in the soft light of the shaded lamps she was like a dark, marble statue set in the midst of thick shrubbery in a garden.

Her elbow rested on her knee, her chin upon her beautiful, heavy hand; only in her hair there was bright colour.
She knew the Wanderer's footstep, but she neither moved her body nor turned her head.

She felt that she grew paler than before, and she could hear her heart beating strongly.
"I come from Israel Kafka," said the Wanderer, standing still before her.
She knew from his tone how hard his face must be, and she would not look up.
"What of him ?" she asked in a voice without expression.

"Is he well ?" "He bids me say to you that he has promised before Heaven to take your life, and that there is no escape from a man who is ready to lay down his own." Unorna turned her head slowly towards him, and a very soft look stole over her strange face.
"And you have brought me his message--this warning--to save me ?" she said.
"As I tried to save him from you an hour ago.

But there is little time.
The man is desperate, whether mad or sane, I cannot tell.