“To my mind. I would say to my son, if I had one--my thanks to a blind but intelligent destiny for preserving me from such a calamity!--I would say to him, ‘Spend thy youth among flowers in the land where they are brightest and sweetest; pass thy manhood in all lands where man strives with man, thought for thought, blow for blow; choose for thine old age that spot in which, all things being old, thou mayest for the longest time consider thyself young in comparison with thy surroundings.’ A man can never feel old if he contemplates and meditates upon those things only which are immeasurably older than himself. Moreover the imperishable can preserve the perishable.” “It was not your habit to talk of death when we were together.” “I have found it interesting of late years. The subject is connected with one of my inventions. Did you ever embalm a body? No? I could tell you something singular about the newest process.” “What is the connection?” “I am embalming myself, body and mind. It is but an experiment, and unless it succeeds it must be the last. Embalming, as it is now understood, means substituting one thing for another. Very good. I am trying to purge from my mind its old circulating medium; the new thoughts must all be selected from a class which admits of no decay. Nothing could be simpler.” “It seems to me that nothing could be more vague.” “You were not formerly so slow to understand me,” said the strange little man with some impatience. “Do you know a lady of Prague who calls herself Unorna?” the Wanderer asked, paying no attention to his friend’s last remark. “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.