“He is a little better,” he said discontentedly, after another long interval of silence.

The Wanderer bent down and saw that the eyelids were quivering and that the face was less deathly livid than before.  Then the eyes opened and stared dreamily at the glass roof.

“And I will,” said the faint, weak voice, as though completing a sentence.

“I think not,” observed Keyork, as though answering.  “The people who do what they 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.