“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 to examine the unfortunate man’s face and eyes.  “The Individual squeezed him a little too hard, I suppose,” he added, applying his ear to the region of the heart, and moving his head about a little as he did so.

“I hate men who make statements about things they do not understand,” he said viciously, looking up as he spoke, but without any expression of satisfaction.  “He is no more dead than you are—­the greater pity!  It would have been so convenient.  It is nothing but a slight syncope—­probably the result of poorness of blood and an over-excited state of the nervous system.  Help me to lay him on his back.  You ought to have known that was the only thing to do.  Put a cushion under his head.  There—­he will come to himself presently, but he will not be so dangerous as he was.”

The Wanderer drew a long breath of relief as he helped Keyork to make the necessary arrangements.

“How long will it last?” he inquired.

“How can I tell?” returned Keyork sharply.  “Have you never heard of a syncope?  Do you know nothing about anything?”

He had produced a bottle containing some very strong salt and was applying it to the unconscious man’s nostrils.  The Wanderer paid no attention to his irritable temper and stood looking on.  A long time passed and yet the Moravian gave no further signs of consciousness.