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He opened his eyes quite naturally, and after looking out of the window stretched himself as far as the limits of the space would allow. He felt very weak and very tired. The bright colour had left his olive cheeks, his lips were pale and his eyes heavy. "Travelling is very tiring," he said, glancing at Keyork's face. The old man rubbed his hands briskly and laughed.
You are indeed an interesting companion, my dear friend so interesting that I hope we shall never part again." There was a rather savage intonation in the last words. They looked at each other intently, neither wincing nor lowering his gaze. The Wanderer saw that he had touched upon Keyork's greatest and most important secret, and Keyork fancied that his companion knew more than he actually did.
"Put him into a lethargy," said he under his breath, but with authority in his manner. Unorna shook her head. Keyork's small eyes brightened angrily. "Do it," he said. "What is this caprice? Are you mad? I want to take his temperature without waking him." Unorna folded her arms. "Do you want him to suffer more?" asked Keyork with a diabolical smile.
These reflections comforted her as she paced the marble floor, and yet Keyork's remark rang in her ears and disturbed her. She knew how vast his experience was and how much he could tell by a single glance at a human face. He had been familiar with every phase of hypnotism long before she had known him, and might reasonably be supposed to know by inspection whether the sleep were natural or not.
"What do you want of me?" "Your help, man, and quickly! Call your people! Have him carried upstairs! Revive him! do something to bring him back!" Keyork's voice changed. "Is he in real danger?" he asked. "What have you done to him?" "Oh, I do not know what I have done!" cried Unorna desperately. "I do not know what I fear "
Keyork's eyes brightened suddenly, and a peal of laughter, deep and rich, broke from his sturdy breast and rolled long echoes through the dismal lane, musical as a hunting-song heard among great trees in winter. But his ivory features were not discomposed, though his white beard trembled and waved softly like a snowy veil blown about by the wind.
They parted, the Wanderer continuing on his way along the street with the same calm, cold, peaceful expression which had elicited Keyork's admiration, and Keyork himself going forward to Unorna's door. His face was very grave.
It was clear that ascetic practices formed no part of his scheme for the prolongation of life. As he raised his glass to his lips, his bright eyes twinkled. "To Keyork's long life and happiness," he said calmly, and then sipped the wine.
He could still wonder, indeed, that he should have yielded so easily to Keyork's pressing invitation to accompany the latter upon such an extraordinary flight, but he remembered then his last interview with Unorna and it seemed almost natural that in his despair he should have chosen to go away. Not that his passion for the woman was dead.
Half dressed, she wrapped about her a cloak that came down to her feet, and throwing a black veil over her hair she went down to the portress's lodge. In five minutes she had found Keyork's address and had despatched one of the convent gardeners with the note. Then she leisurely returned to her room and set about completing her toilet.
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