upon Keyork's shoulder.

"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 Wanderer took him kindly by the arm, supporting his steps
and leading him to a seat. Kafka glanced suspiciously at him and at the
other two, but seemed unable to make any further effort and sank back
with a low groan. His face grew pale and his eyelids drooped.

"Get some wine--something to restore him," the Wanderer said.

Keyork looked at the Moravian critically for a moment.

"Yes," he assented, "he is more exhausted than I thought. He is not
very dangerous now." Then he went in search of what was needed. The
Individual retired to a distance and stood looking on with folded arms.

"Do you hear me?" asked the Wanderer, speaking gently. "Do you
understand what I say?"

Israel Kafka nodded, but said nothing.

"You are very ill. This foolish idea that has possessed you this evening
comes from your illness. Will you go away quietly with me, and make no
resistance, so that I may take care of you?"

This time there was not even a movement of the head.

"This is merely a passing thing," the Wanderer continued in a tone of
quiet encouragement. "You have been feverish and excited, and I daresay
you have been too much alone of late. If you will come with me, I will
take care of you, and see that all is well."

"I told you that I would kill her--and I will," said Israel Kafka,
faintly but distinctly.

"You will not kill her," answered his companion. "I will prevent
you from attempting it, and as soon as you are well you will see the
absurdity of the idea."

Israel Kafka made an impatient gesture, feeble but sufficiently
expressive. Then all at once his limbs relaxed, and his head fell
forward upon his breast. The Wanderer started to his feet and moved him
into a more comfortable position. There were one or two quickly drawn
breaths and the breathing ceased altogether. At that moment Keyork
returned carrying a bottle of wine and a glass.

"It is too late," said the Wanderer gravely. "Israel Kafka is dead."

"Dead!" exclaimed Keyork, setting down what he had in his hands,
and hastening