When she at last raised her eyes the dawn was breaking.  Through the transparent roof of glass a cold gray light began to descend upon the warm, still brightness of the lamps.  The shadows changed, the colours grew more cold, the dark nooks among the heavy foliage less black.  Israel Kafka’s face was ghostly and livid—­the Wanderer’s had the alabaster transparency that comes upon some strong men in sleep.  Still, neither stirred.  Unorna turned from the one and looked upon the other.  For the first time she saw how he had changed, and wondered.

“How peacefully he sleeps!” she thought.  “He is dreaming of her.”

The dawn came stealing on, not soft and blushing as in southern lands, but cold, resistless and grim as ancient fate; not the maiden herald of the sun with rose-tipped fingers and grey, liquid eyes, but hard, cruel, sullen, and less darkness following upon a greater and going before a dull, sunless and heavy day.

The door opened somewhat noisily and a brisk step fell upon the marble pavement.  Unorna rose noiselessly to her feet and hastening along the open space came face to face with Keyork Arabian.  He stopped and looked up at her from beneath his heavy brows, with surprise and suspicion.  She raised one finger to her lips.

“You here already?” he asked, obeying her gesture and speaking in a low voice.

“Hush!  Hush!” she whispered, not satisfied.  “They are asleep.  You will wake them.”

Keyork came forward.  He could move quietly enough when he chose.  He glanced at the Wanderer.

“He looks comfortable enough,” he whispered, half contemptuously.

Then he bent down over Israel Kafka and carefully examined his face.  To him the ghastly pallor meant nothing.  It was but the natural result of excessive exhaustion.

“Put him into a lethargy,” said he under his breath, but with authority in his manner.

Unorna shook her head.  Keyork’s small eyes brightened angrily.

“Do it,” he said.  “What is this caprice?  Are you mad?  I want to take his temperature without waking him.”

Unorna folded her arms.

“Do you want him to suffer more?” asked Keyork with a diabolical smile.  “If so I will wake him by all means; I am always at your service, you know.”

“Will he suffer, if he wakes naturally?”

“Horribly—­in the head.”

Unorna knelt down and let her hand rest a few seconds on Kafka’s brow.  The features, drawn with pain, immediately relaxed.

“You have hypnotised the one,” grumbled Keyork as he bent down again.  “I cannot imagine why you should object to doing the same for the other.”

“The other?” Unorna repeated in surprise.

“Our friend there, in the arm chair.”

“It is not true.  He fell asleep of himself.”

Keyork smiled again, incredulously this time.  He had already applied his pocket-thermometer and looked at his watch.  Unorna had risen to her feet, disdaining to defend herself against the imputation expressed in his face.  Some minutes passed in silence.