ld not believe himself in the arms of a human being. His
captors had anticipated that he would try to escape and has posted the
Individual in the shadow of a tree near the doorway. The deaf and dumb
man had received his instructions by means of a couple of quick signs,
and not a whisper had betrayed the measures taken. Kafka struggled
desperately, for he was within three feet of the door and still believed
an escape possible. He tried to strike behind him with his sharp blade
of which a single touch would have severed muscle and sinew like silk
threads, but the bear-like embrace seemed to confine his whole body,
his arms and even his wrists. Then he felt himself turned round and the
Individual pushed him towards the middle of the hall. The Wanderer was
advancing quickly, and Keyork Arabian, who had again fallen behind,
peered at Kafka from behind his tall companion with a grotesque
expression in which bodily fear and a desire to laugh at the captive
were strongly intermingled.

"It is of no use to resist," said the Wanderer quietly. "We are too
strong for you."

Kafka said nothing, but his bloodshot eyes glared up angrily at the tall
man's face.

"He looks dangerous, and he still has that thing in his hand," said
Keyork Arabian. "I think I will give him ether at once while the
Individual holds him. Perhaps you could do it."

"You will do nothing of the kind," the Wanderer answered. "What a coward
you are, Keyork!" he added contemptuously.

Going to Kafka's side he took him by the wrist of the hand which held
the knife. But Kafka still clutched it firmly.

"You had better give it up," he said.

Kafka shook his head angrily and set his teeth, but the Wanderer
unclasped the fingers by quiet force and took the weapon away. He handed
it to Keyork, who breathed a sigh of relief as he looked at it, smiling
at last, and holding his head on one side.

"To think," he soliloquised, "that an inch of such pretty stuff as
Damascus steel, in the right place, can draw the sharp red line between
time and eternity!"

He put the knife tenderly away in the bosom of his fur coat. His whole
manner changed and he came forward with his usual, almost jaunty step.

"And now that you are quite harmless, my dear friend," he said,
addressing Israel Kafka, "I hope to make you see the folly of your ways.
I suppose you know that you are quite mad and that the proper place for
you is a lunatic asylum."

The Wanderer laid his hand heavily