The Wanderer rose to his feet.

“Keyork Arabian!” he exclaimed, extending his hand.  The little man immediately gripped it in his small fingers, which, soft and delicately made as they were, possessed a strength hardly to have been expected either from their shape, or from the small proportions of him to whom they belonged.

“Still wandering?” asked the little man, with a slightly sarcastic intonation.  He spoke in a deep, caressing bass, not loud, but rich in quality and free from that jarring harshness which often belongs to very manly voices.  A musician would have discovered that the pitch was that of those Russian choristers whose deep throats yield organ tones, a full octave below the compass of ordinary singers in other lands.

“You must have wandered, too, since we last met,” replied the taller man.

“I never wander,” said Keyork.  “When a man knows what he wants, knows where it is to be found, and goes thither to take it, he is not wandering.  Moreover, I have no thought of removing myself or my goods from Prague.  I live here.  It is a city for old men.  It is saturnine.  The foundations of its houses rest on the silurian formation, which is more than can be said for any other capital, as far as I know.”

“Is that an advantage?” inquired the Wanderer.

“To my mind.  I would say to my son, if I had one—­my thanks to a blind but intelligent destiny for preserving me from such a calamity!—­I would say to him, ’Spend thy youth among flowers in the land where they are brightest and sweetest; pass thy manhood in all lands where man strives with man, thought for thought, blow for blow; choose for thine old age that spot in which, all things being old, thou mayest for the longest time consider thyself young in comparison with thy surroundings.’  A man can never feel old if he contemplates and meditates upon those things only which are immeasurably older than himself.  Moreover the imperishable can preserve the perishable.”

“It was not your habit to talk of death when we were together.”

“I have found it interesting of late years.  The subject is connected with one of my inventions.  Did you ever embalm a body?  No?  I could tell you something singular about the newest process.”

“What is the connection?”

“I am embalming myself, body and mind.  It is but an experiment, and unless it succeeds it must be the last.  Embalming, as it is now understood, means substituting one thing for another.  Very good.  I am trying to purge from my mind its old circulating medium; the new thoughts must all be selected from a class which admits of no decay.  Nothing could be simpler.”

“It seems to me that nothing could be more vague.”

“You were not formerly so slow to understand me,” said the strange little man with some impatience.

“Do you know a lady of Prague who calls herself Unorna?” the Wanderer asked, paying no attention to his friend’s last remark.