the room, in evident agitation, twisting his fingers and bending down his head.
“My accursed folly!” he exclaimed, as though speaking to himself. “My damnable ingenuity in being odious! It is not to be believed! That a man of my age should think one thing and say another—like a tetchy girl or a spoilt child! The stupidity of the thing! And then, to have the idiotic utterances of the tongue registered and judged as a confession of faith—or rather, of faithlessness! But it is only just—it is only right—Keyork Arabian’s self is ruined again by Keyork Arabian’s vile speeches, which have no more to do with his self than the clouds on earth have with the sun above them! Ruined, ruined—lost, this time. Cut off from the only living being he respects—the only being whose respect he covets; sent back to die in his loneliness, to perish like a friendless beast, as he is, to the funereal music of his own irrepressible snarling! To growl himself out of the world, like a broken-down old tiger in the jungle, after scaring away all possible peace and happiness and help with his senseless growls! Ugh! It is perfectly just, it is absolutely right and supremely horrible to think of! A fool to the last, Keyork, as you always were—and who would make a friend of such a fool?”
Unorna leaned upon the back of the chair watching him, and wondering whether, after all, he were not in earnest this time. He jerked out his sentences excitedly, striking his hands together and then swinging his arms in strange gestures. His tone, as he gave utterance to his incoherent self-condemnation, was full of sincere conviction and of anger against himself. He seemed not to see Unorna, nor to notice her presence in the room. Suddenly, he stopped, looked at her and came towards her. His manner became very humble.
“You are right, my dear lady,” he said. “I have no claim to your forbearance for my outrageous humours. I have offended you, insulted you, spoken to you as no man should speak to any woman. I cannot even ask you to forgive me, and, if I tell you that I am sorry, you will not believe me. Why should you? But you are right. This cannot go on. Rather than run the risk of again showing you my abominable temper, I will go away.”
His voice trembled and his bright eyes seemed to grow dull and misty.
“Let this be our parting,” he continued, as though mastering his emotion. “I have no right to ask anything, and yet I ask this of you. 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.”
At the words, the light returned to his eyes, and a look of ineffable beatitude overspread the face which could be so immovably expressionless.
“You are as kind as you are good, Unorna, and as good as you are beautiful,” he said, and with a gesture which would have been courtly in a man of nobler stature, but which was almost grotesque in such a dwarf, he raised her fingers to his lips.
This time, no peal of laugher followed to destroy the impression he had produced upon Unorna. She let her hand rest in his a few seconds, and then gently withdrew it.
“I must be going,” she said.
“So soon?” exclaimed Keyork regretfully. “There were many things I had wished to say to you to-day, but if you have no time——”
“I can spare a few minutes,” answered Unorna, pausing. “What is it?”
“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. “While there, I met an old acquaintance of mine, a strange fellow whom I have not seen for years. The world is very small. He is a great traveller—a wanderer through the world.”
Unorna looked up quickly, and a very slight colour appeared in her cheeks.
“Who is he?” she asked, trying to seem indifferent. “What is his name?”
“His name? It is strange, but I cannot recall it. He is very tall, wears a dark beard, has a pale, thoughtful face. But I need not describe him, for he told me that he had been with you this morning. That is not the point.”
He spoke carelessly and scarcely glanced at Unorna while speaking.
“What of him?” she inquired, trying to seem as indifferent as her companion.
“He is a little mad, poor man, that is all. It struck me that, if you would, you might save him. I know something of his story, though not much. He once loved a young girl, now doubtless dead, but whom he still believes to be alive, and he spends—or wastes—his life in a useless search for her. You might cure him of the delusion.”
“How do you know that the girl is dead?”
“She died in Egypt, four years ago,” answered Keyork. “They had taken her there in the hope of saving her, for she was at death’s door already, poor child.”
“But if you convince him of that.”
“There is no convincing him, and if he were really convinced he would die himself. I used to take an interest in the man, and I know that you could cure him in a simpler and safer way. But of course it lies with you.”
“If you wish it, I will try,” Unorna answered, turning her face from the light. “But he will probably not come back to me.”
“He will. I advised him very strongly to come back, very strongly indeed. I hope I did right. Are you displeased?”
“Not at all!” Unorna laughed a little. “And if he comes, how am I to convince him that he is mistaken, and that the girl is dead?”
“That is very simple. You will hypnotise him, he will yield very easily, and you will suggest to him very forcibly to forget the girl’s existence. You can suggest to him to come back to-morrow and the next day, or as often as you please, and you can renew the suggestion each time. In a week he will have forgotten—as you know people can forget—entirely, totally, without hope of recalling what is lost.”
“That is true,” said Unorna, in a low voice. “Are you sure that the effect will be permanent?” she asked with sudden anxiety.
“A case of the kind occurred in Hungary last year. The cure was effected in Pesth. I was reading it only a few months ago. The oblivion was still complete, as long as six months after the treatment, and there seems no reason to suppose that the patient’s condition will change. I thought it might interest you to try it.”
“It will interest me extremely. I am very grateful to you for telling me about him.”
Unorna had watched her companion narrowly during the conversation, expecting him to betray his knowledge of a connection between the Wanderer’s visit and the strange question she had been asking of the sleeper when Keyork had surprised her. She was agreeably disappointed in this however. He spoke with a calmness and ease of manner which disarmed suspicion.
“I
