Through the transparent roof of glass a cold gray light began to descend upon the warm, still brightness of the lamps.

The shadows changed, the colours grew more cold, the dark nooks among the heavy foliage less black.
Israel Kafka's face was ghostly and livid--the Wanderer's had the alabaster transparency that comes upon some strong men in sleep.

Still, neither stirred.

Unorna turned from the one and looked upon the other.
For the first time she saw how he had changed, and wondered.
"How peacefully he sleeps!" she thought.

"He is dreaming of her." The dawn came stealing on, not soft and blushing as in southern lands, but cold, resistless and grim as ancient fate; not the maiden herald of the sun with rose-tipped fingers and grey, liquid eyes, but hard, cruel, sullen, and less darkness following upon a greater and going before a dull, sunless and heavy day.
The door opened somewhat noisily and a brisk step fell upon the marble pavement.