“We remembered everything, except that our wandering friend and Kafka were very likely to meet, and that Kafka would in all probability refer to his delightful journey to the south in my company.”

“That is true!” exclaimed Unorna with an anxious glance.  “Well?  What have you done?”

“I met the Wanderer in the street.  What could I do?  I told him that Israel Kafka was a little mad, and that his harmless delusions referred to a journey he was supposed to have made with me, and to an equally imaginary passion which he fancies he feels for you.”

“That was wise,” said Unorna, still pale.  “How came we to be so imprudent!  One word, and he might have suspected—­”

“He could not have suspected all,” answered Keyork.  “No man could suspect that.”

“Nevertheless, I suppose what we have done is not exactly—­justifiable.”

“Hardly.  It is true that criminal law has not yet adjusted itself to meet questions of suggestion and psychic influence, but it draws the line, most certainly, somewhere between these questions and the extremity to which we have gone.  Happily the law is at an immeasurable distance from science, and here, as usual in such experiments, no one could prove anything, owing to the complete unconsciousness of the principal witnesses.”

“I do not like to think that we have been near to such trouble,” said Unorna.

“Nor I. It was fortunate that I met the Wanderer when I did.”

“And the other?  Did he wake as I ordered him to do?  Is all right?  Is there no danger of his suspecting anything?”

It seemed as though Unorna had momentarily forgotten that such a contingency might be possible, and her anxiety returned with the recollection.  Keyork’s rolling laughter reverberated among the plants and filled the whole wide hall with echoes.

“No danger there,” he answered.  “Your witchcraft is above criticism.  Nothing of that kind that you have ever undertaken has failed.”

“Except against you,” said Unorna, thoughtfully.

“Except against me, of course.  How could you ever expect anything of the kind to succeed against me, my dear lady?”

“And why not?  After all, in spite of our jesting, you are not a supernatural being.”

“That depends entirely on the interpretation you give to the word supernatural.  But, my dear friend and colleague, let us not deceive each other, though we are able between us to deceive other people into believing almost anything.  There is nothing in all this witchcraft of yours but a very powerful moral influence at work—­I mean apart from the mere faculty of clairvoyance which is possessed by hundreds of common somnambulists, and which, in you, is a mere accident.  The rest, this hypnotism, this suggestion, this direction of others’ wills, is a moral affair, a matter of direct impression produced by words.  Mental suggestion may in rare cases succeed, when the person to be influenced is himself a natural clairvoyant.  But these cases are not worth taking into consideration.  Your influence is a direct one, chiefly exercised by means of your words and through the impression of power which you know how to convey in them.  It is marvellous, I admit.  But the very definition puts me beyond your power.”