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Updated: May 14, 2025
"Not unless she is a very singularly reticent person," answered Keyork, with a laugh. "But you need not go so far as the ghost theory for an explanation. You were hypnotised, my dear friend, and he made you see her. That is as simple as anything need be." "But that is impossible, because " Unorna stopped and changed colour. "Because you had hypnotised him already," suggested Keyork gravely.
There is only one man living who could imagine such things as I have done and tried to do. He is Keyork Arabian. But he would have been wiser than I, perhaps." She relapsed into silence. Before her rose the dim altar in the church, the shadowy figure of Beatrice standing up in the dark, the horrible sacrilege that was to have been done. Her face grew dark with fear of her own soul.
To use that particularly disagreeable and suggestive word invented by men, he will die." "He seems no worse," said Unorna, contemplating the massive, peaceful face. "I do not like the word 'seems," answered Keyork. "It is the refuge of inaccurate persons, unable to distinguish between facts and appearances." "You object to everything to-day.
Scarce a hundred paces from Unorna's door he met the Wanderer. He looked up into the cold, calm face, and put out his hand, with a greeting. "You look as though you were in a very peaceful frame of mind," observed Keyork. "Why should I be anything but peaceful?" asked the other, "I have nothing to disturb me." "True, true. You possess a very fine organisation.
Almost before it had stopped, the door opened and Keyork Arabian's short, heavy form emerged and descended hastily to the pavement. He rang the bell furiously, and the old portress set the gate ajar and looked out cautiously, fearing that the noisy peal meant trouble or disturbance. "The lady Beatrice Varanger I must see her instantly!" cried the little man in terrible excitement.
The pungent smell of salts of ammonia pervaded the place; but the Wanderer knew that Keyork had a bottle of ether in the pocket of his coat, and he rightly judged that a very little of that would put an end to the life that was hanging in the balance. Nearly half an hour passed before either spoke again. Then Keyork looked up. This time his voice was smooth and persuasive.
"In Unorna?" the question was asked scornfully. "By Unorna." "I do not believe you. You are mad, as I am. Would you play the prophet?" The door opened in the distance, and from behind the screen of plants Keyork Arabian came forward into the hall, his small eyes bright, his ivory face set and expressionless, his long beard waving in the swing of his walk.
When I have left you, when you are safe for ever from my humours and my tempers and myself then, do not think unkindly of Keyork Arabian. He would have seemed the friend he is, but for his unruly tongue." Unorna hesitated a moment. Then she put out her hand, convinced of his sincerity in spite of herself. "Let bygones be bygones, Keyork," she said. "You must not go, for I believe you."
"Remember what I told you," he said sternly. "He will be reasonable now. Make your fellow understand that he is to let him go." "Better shut the door first," said Keyork, suiting the action to the word and then coming back. "Make haste!" said the Wanderer with impatience. "The man is ill, whether he is mad or not." Released at last from the Individual's iron grip, Israel Kafka staggered a little.
"The knowledge of what I can feel is mine alone," answered Keyork, with a touch of sadness. "I am not a happy man. The world, for me, holds but one interest and one friendship. Destroy the one, or embitter the other, and Keyork's remnant of life becomes but a foretaste of death."
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