“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. “It is clear that he cannot stay here if he is to be seriously ill,” the Wanderer said. “And it is equally clear that he cannot be taken away,” retorted Keyork. “You seem to be in a very combative frame of mind,” the other answered, sitting down and looking at his watch. “If you cannot revive him, he ought to be brought to more comfortable quarters for the night.” “In his present condition--of course,” said Keyork with a sneer. “Do you think he would be in danger on the way?” “I never think--I know,” snarled the sage. The Wanderer showed a slight surprise at the roughness of the answer, but said nothing, contenting himself with watching the proceedings keenly. He was by no means past suspecting that Keyork might apply some medicine the very reverse of reviving, if left to himself. For the present there seemed to be no danger. The pungent smell of salts of ammonia pervaded the place; but the Wanderer knew that Keyork had a bottle of ether in the pocket of his coat, and he rightly judged that a very little of that would put an end to the life that was hanging in the balance. Nearly half an hour passed before either spoke again. Then Keyork looked up. This time his voice was smooth and persuasive. His irritability had all disappeared. “You must be tired,” he said. “Why do you not go home? Or else go to my house and wait for us. The Individual and I can take care of him very well.” “Thanks,” replied the Wanderer with a slight smile. “I am not in the least tired, and I prefer to stay where I am. I am not hindering you, I believe.” Now Keyork Arabian had no interest in allowing Israel Kafka to die, though the Wanderer half believed that he had, though he could not imagine what that interest might be. The little man was in reality on the track of an experiment, and he knew very well that so long as he was so narrowly watched it would be quite impossible to try it. In spite of his sneers at his companion’s ignorance, he was aware that the latter knew enough to make every effort conducive to reviving the patient if left to himself, and he submitted with a bad grace to doing what he would rather have left undone.