mean to do are not always talking about will." But Kafka had
closed his eyes again.

This time, however, his breathing was apparent and he was evidently
returning to a conscious state. The Wanderer arranged the pillow more
comfortably under his head and covered him with his own furs. Keyork,
relinquishing all hopes of trying the experiment at present, poured a
little wine down his throat.

"Do you think we can take him home to-night?" inquired the Wanderer.

He was prepared for an ill-tempered answer, but not for what Keyork
actually said. The little man got upon his feet and coolly buttoned his
coat.

"I think not," he replied. "There is nothing to be done but to keep him
quiet. Good-night. I am tired of all this nonsense, and I do not mean
to lose my night's rest for all the Israels in Jewry--or all the Jews in
Israel. You can stay with him if you please."

Thereupon he turned on his heel, making a sign to the Individual, who
had not moved from his place since Kafka had lost consciousness, and who
immediately followed his master.

"I will come and see to him in the morning," said Keyork carelessly, as
he disappeared from sight among the plants.

The Wanderer's long-suffering temper was roused and his eyes gleamed
angrily as he looked after the departing sage.

"Hound!" he exclaimed in a very audible voice.

He hardly knew why he was so angry with the man who called himself his
friend. Keyork had behaved no worse than an ordinary doctor, for he had
stayed until the danger was over and had promised to come again in the
morning. It was his cool way of disclaiming all further responsibility
and of avoiding all further trouble which elicited the Wanderer's
resentment, as well as the unpleasant position in which the latter found
himself.

He had certainly not anticipated being left in charge of a sick man--and
that sick man Israel Kafka--in Unorna's house for the whole night, and
he did not enjoy the prospect. The mere detail of having to give some
explanation to the servants, who would doubtless come before long to
extinguish the lights, was far from pleasant. Moreover, though Keyork
had declared the patient out of danger, there seemed no absolute
certainty that a relapse would not take place before morning, and Kafka
might actually lay in the certainty--delusive enough--that Unorna could
not return until the following day.

He did not dare to take upon himself the responsibility of calling some
one to help h