“I do.  What of her?” Keyork Arabian glanced keenly at his companion.

“What is she?  She has an odd name.”

“As for her name, it is easily accounted for.  She was born on the twenty-ninth day of February, the year of her birth being bisextile.  Unor means February, Unorna, derivative adjective, ’belonging to February.’  Some one gave her the name to commemorate the circumstance.”

“Her parents, I suppose.”

“Most probably—­whoever they may have been.”

“And what is she?” the Wanderer asked.

“She calls herself a witch,” answered Keyork with considerable scorn.  “I do not know what she is, or what to call her—­a sensitive, an hysterical subject, a medium, a witch—­a fool, if you like, or a charlatan if you prefer the term.  Beautiful she is, at least, whatever else she may not be.”

“Yes, she is beautiful.”

“So you have seen her, have you?” The little man again looked sharply up at his tall companion.  “You have had a consultation——­”

“Does she give consultations?  Is she a professional seer?” The Wanderer asked the question in a tone of surprise.  “Do you mean that she maintains an establishment upon such a scale out of the proceeds of fortune-telling?”

“I do not mean anything of the sort.  Fortune-telling is excellent!  Very good!” Keyork’s bright eyes flashed with amusement.  “What are you doing here—­I mean in this church?” He put the question suddenly.

“Pursuing—­an idea, if you please to call it so.”

“Not knowing what you mean I must please to call your meaning by your own name for it.  It is your nature to be enigmatic.  Shall we go out?  If I stay here much longer I shall be petrified instead of embalmed.  I shall turn into dirty old red marble like Tycho’s effigy there, an awful warning to future philosophers, and an example for the edification of the faithful who worship here.”

They walked towards the door, and the contrast between the appearance of the two brought the ghost of a smile to the thin lips of the pale sacristan, who was occupied in renewing the tapers upon one of the side altars.  Keyork Arabian might have stood for the portrait of the gnome-king.  His high and pointed head, his immense beard, his stunted but powerful and thickset limbs, his short, sturdy strides, the fiery, half-humorous, half-threatening twinkle of his bright eyes gave him all the appearance of a fantastic figure from a fairy tale, and the diminutive height of his compact frame set off the noble stature and graceful motion of his companion.