She knew now what he had suffered, for she suffered it all herself.

He, at least, had been free to speak his mind, to rage and storm and struggle.

She must sit still and hide her agony, at the risk of losing all.

She bit her white lips and turned her head away, and was silent.
"You are my best friend," the Wanderer repeated in his calm voice, and every syllable pierced her like a glowing needle.

"And does not friendship give rights which ought to be used?
If, as I think, Unorna, you look upon me as an idler, as a worthless being, as a man without as much as the shadow of a purpose in the world, it is but natural that you should despise me a little, even though you may be very fond of me.