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Updated: June 14, 2025
Keyork Arabian might have stood for the portrait of the gnome-king.
In him there was neither ambition, nor pride, nor vanity in the ordinary meaning of these words. For passion ceases with the cessation of comparison between man and his fellows, and Keyork Arabian acknowledged no ground for such a comparison in his own case.
"Indeed, I hardly know how I could suppose that. You have always been friendly but I confess your names for things are not always " The Wanderer did not complete the sentence, but looked gravely at Keyork as though wishing to convey very clearly again what he had before expressed in words.
"One thing is this." His face had again become impenetrable as a mask of old ivory, and he spoke in his ordinary way. "This is the question. I was in the Teyn Kirche before I came here." "In church!" exclaimed Unorna in some surprise, and with a slight smile. "I frequently go to church," answered Keyork gravely.
I will be loved freely, for myself, or not at all." "I see, I see," said Keyork thoughtfully, "something in the way Israel Kafka loves you." "Yes, as Israel Kafka loves me, I am not afraid to say it. As he loves me, of his own free will, and to his own destruction as I should have loved him, had it been so fated."
But if you find that you are reaching a point on which your judgment is clouded, you had better shut up the magic lantern and take the rational view of the case." "Perhaps you are right." "Will you allow me to say something very frank, Unorna?" asked Keyork with unusual diffidence. "If you can manage to be frank without being brutal." "I will be short, at all events. It is this.
May vampires get your body and the Three Black Angels cast lots upon your soul!" In the storm of curses that followed, the convent door was violently shut in his face. Within, the portress stood shaking with fear, crossing herself again and again, and verily believing that the devil himself had tried to force an entrance into the sacred place. In fearful anger Keyork drew back.
Then she heard a strange, sudden noise behind her. She turned and looked. The dead negro had fallen bodily from his pedestal to the floor, with a dull, heavy thud. She did not desist, but struck the oaken planks again and again with all her strength. Then her arms grew numb and she dropped the club. It was all in vain. Keyork had locked her in and had taken the Wanderer away.
She had waited to be won, instead of trying to win. She had failed, and passion could be restrained no longer. "What does it matter how, if only he is mine!" she exclaimed fiercely, as she rose from her carved chair an hour after he had left her. Israel Kafka found himself seated in the corner of a comfortable carriage with Keyork Arabian at his side.
All the aims and desires and complex reasonings of his being tended to this simple expression the wish to live. To what idolatrous self-worship Keyork Arabian might be capable of descending, if he ever succeeded in eliminating death from the equation of his immediate future, it was impossible to say. The wisdom of ages bids us beware of the man of one idea.
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