gloomiest city on this side of eternal perdition? It is certainly not for my welfare that you are sacrificing yourself. You admit that you are pursuing an idea. Perhaps you are in search of some new and curious form of mildew, and when you have found it—or something else—you will name your discovery Fungus Pragensis, or Cryptogamus minor Errantis—‘the Wanderer’s toadstool.’ But I know you of old, my good friend. The idea you pursue is not an idea at all, but that specimen of the genus homo known as ‘woman,’ species ‘lady,’ variety ‘true love,’ vulgar designation ‘sweetheart.’”
The Wanderer stared coldly at his companion.
“The vulgarity of the designation is indeed only equalled by that of your taste in selecting it,” he said slowly. Then he turned away, intending to leave Keyork standing where he was.
But the little man had already repented of his speech. He ran quickly to his friend’s side and laid one hand upon his arm. The Wanderer paused and again looked down.
“Is it of any use to be offended with my speeches? Am I an acquaintance of yesterday? Do you imagine that it could ever be my intention to annoy you?” the questions were asked rapidly in tones of genuine anxiety.
“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.
“If we were fellow-countrymen and had our native language in common, we should not so easily misunderstand one another,” replied the other. “Come, forgive my lack of skill, and do not let us quarrel. Perhaps I can help you. You may know Prague well, but I know it better. Will you allow me to say that I know also whom it is you are seeking here?”
“Yes. You know. I have not changed since we last met, nor have circumstances favoured me.”
“Tell me—have you really seen this Unorna, and talked with her?”
“This morning.”
“And she could not help you?”
“I refused to accept her help, until I had done all that was in my own power to do.”
“You were rash. And have you now done all, and failed?”
“I have.”
“Then, if you will accept a humble suggestion from me, you will go back to her at once.”
“I know very little of her. I do not altogether trust her—”
“Trust! Powers of Eblis—or any other powers! Who talks of trust? Does the wise man trust himself? Never. Then how can he dare trust any one else?”
“Your cynical philosophy again!” exclaimed the Wanderer.
“Philosophy? I am a mysosophist! All wisdom is vanity, and I hate it! Autology is my study, autosophy my ambition, autonomy my pride. I am the great Panegoist, the would-be Conservator of Self, the inspired prophet of the Universal I. I—I—I! My creed has but one word, and that word but one letter, that letter represents Unity, and Unity is Strength. I am I, one, indivisible, central! O I! Hail and live for ever!”
Again the little man’s rich bass voice rang out in mellow laughter. A very faint smile appeared upon his companion’s sad face.
“You are happy, Keyork,” he said. “You must be, since you can laugh at yourself so honestly.”
“At myself? Vain man! I am laughing at you, and at every one else, at everything except myself. Will you go to Unorna? You need not trust her any more than the natural infirmity of your judgment suggests.”
“Can you tell me nothing more of her? Do you know her well?”
“She does not offer her help to every one. You would have done well to accept it in the first instance. You may not find her in the same humour again.”
“I had supposed from what you said of her that she made a profession of clairvoyance, or hypnotism, or mesmerism—whatever may be the right term nowadays.”
“It matters very little,” answered Keyork, gravely. “I used to wonder at Adam’s ingenuity in naming all living things, but I think he would have made but a poor figure in a tournament of modern terminologists. No. Unorna does not accept remuneration for her help when she vouchsafes to give it.”
“And yet I was introduced to her presence without even giving my name.”
“That is her fancy. She will see any one who wishes to see her, beggar, gentleman, or prince. But she only answers such questions as she pleases to answer.”
“That is to say, inquiries for which she is already prepared with a reply,” suggested the Wanderer.
“See for yourself. At all events, she is a very interesting specimen. I have never known any one like her.”
Keyork Arabian was silent, as though he were reflecting upon Unorna’s character and peculiar gifts, before describing them to his friend. His ivory features softened almost imperceptibly, and his sharp blue eyes suddenly lost their light, as though they no longer saw the outer world. But the Wanderer cared for none of these things, and bestowed no attention upon his companion’s face. He preferred the little man’s silence to his wild talk, but he was determined, if possible, to extract some further information concerning Unorna, and before many seconds had elapsed he interrupted Keyork’s meditations with a question.
“You tell me to see for myself,” he said. “I would like to know what I am to expect. Will you not enlighten me?”
“What?” asked the other vaguely, as though roused from sleep.
“If I go to Unorna and ask a consultation of her, as though she were a common somnambulist, and if she deigns to place her powers at my disposal what sort of assistance shall I most probably get?”
They had been walking slowly forward, and Keyork again stopped, rapping the pavement with his iron-shod stick, and looking up from under his bushy, overhanging eyebrows.
“Of two things, one will happen,” he answered. “Either she will herself fall into the abnormal state and will answer correctly any questions you put to her, or she will hypnotise you, and you will yourself see—what you wish to see.”
“I myself?”
“You yourself. The peculiarity of the woman is her duality, her double power. She can, by an act of volition, become hypnotic, clairvoyant—whatever you choose to call it. Or, if her visitor is at all sensitive, she can reverse the situation and play the part of the hypnotiser. I never heard of a like case.”
“After all, I do not see why it should not be so,” said the Wanderer thoughtfully. “At all events, whatever she can do, is evidently done by hypnotism, and such extraordinary experiments have succeeded of late—”
“I did not say that there was nothing but hypnotism in her processes.”
“What then? Magic?” The
