then to have the idiotic
>f the tongue registered
is a confession of faith—
f faithlessness! A fool to
'orlc. as you always wore
ould make a friend of such
tinu
tion
thin
you
and
not
He
is. 1
U then
she
his
she
liev
« «
Unc
tifu
wou
nob
grol
her
grel
I ht
if y
Bwe
it?”
“Onething is this.”
again become
of old ivory, at
dinary way. •
t was in the '
came here. ^
old acquaintan
fellow, who 1 h
He is a great
through the wor
strange, but I
is very tall, we
a pale, thought
not describe hi
had been will
That is not the
mad, poor man,
me that, if you
him. I know s
though not muc
young girl, now
whom he still b
he spends—or
useless search
cure him of the
“How do you know
dead?”
, • -She died in Egypt
answered Keyork.
vincing him, and if
convinced he would
used to take an
and I Know that you
in a simpler and safer
“How am I to con
he is mistaken, and
dead?”
• ‘That is very
hypnotize him, he
easily, and you
him very forcibly to
existence.”
• ‘That is true, ”
1
me
the
ques
alone
■ will
will not
Ara
for a
con
heart and
it could
sleep—an
and an ar
of it; it
blood
because it
renewed in
able to re
itself in the
itself be
passed to the
Unorna.
do it, espee
man were very
‘•Are you perfectly sure of what you
my?” asked Unorna eagerly.
"Absolutely. I have examined the
question for years.”
‘ Have you everything you need
here?” inquired Unorna.
"Everything.”
“You seem interested;” said the
gnome.
"Would such a man—such a man
us Israel Kafka answer the purpose?”
the asked.
"Admirably.” replied the other, be
ginning to understand.
"Keyork Arabian,” whispered Un
orna. coming close to him and bend
ing down to bis ear. ‘-Israel Kafka
is alone under the palm tree where I
always sit. He is asleep and be will
not wake.”
The gnome looked up and nodded
gravely. But she was gone almost
before she had finished speaking the
words.
"As upon an instrument,” said the
little man, quoting Unorna's angry
speech. "Truly I can play upon you
but it is a strange music.”
Half an hour later Unorna returned
to her place among the flowers, but
Israel Kafka was gone.
CHAPTER VII.
HE Wanderer,
when Keyork
Arabian had left
him, had in
tended to revisit
Unorna without
delay, but he
had not pro
ceeded far in
the direction of
her house when
he turned out of
his way and en
tered a deserted
street which led toward the river. He
walked slowly, drawing his furs close
ly about him, for it was very cold.
His heart was filled with forebod
ings which his wisdom bade him treat
with indifference, while his passion
gave them new weight and new hor
ror with every minute that passed.
He had seen with his eyes and heard
with his ears. Beatrice had been be
fore him, and her voice had readied
him among the voices of thousands,
but now. since the hours had passed,
and he had not found her, it was as
though he had been hear her in a
.dream, and the strong certainty took
hold of him that she was dead, and
That he had looked upon her wraith
in the shadowy church.
P'The fear of evil, the presentiment
PK death defied logic, and put its own
■^instruction and interpretation upon
She strange event. He neither believed,
nor desired to believe, in a supernat
ural visitation, yet the inexplicable
certainty of having seen a ghostly
vision overwhelmed reason and all her
arguments. Beatrice was dead. Her
spirit had passed in that solemn hour
when the Wanderer had stood in the
dusky church; he had looked upon
her shadowy wraith, and had heard
the echo of a voice from beyond the
stars, whose crystal tones already
swelled the diviner harmony of an
angelic strain.
The Wanderer was of those who
dread nothing save for the one dearly
beloved object, but who, when that
fear is once roused by a real or an
imaginary danger, can suffer in one
short moment the agony which should
be distributed through a whole life
time. The magnitude of his passion
could lend to the least thought or
presentiment connected with it the
force of a fact and the overwhelming
weight of a real calamity.
Love is the first, the greatest, the
gentlest, the most cruel, the most ir
resistible of passions. In his least form
ne is mighty. A little love has de
stroyed many a great friendship. The
merest outward semblance of love has
made such havoc as no intellect could
repair. The reality has made heroes
and martyrs, traitors and murderers,
whose names will not be forgotten fo»
glory or for shame. Helen is not the
only woman whose smile has kindled
the beacon of a 10 years’ war, not
Antony the onlj' man who has lost
the world for a caress. It may be
that the Helen who shall work our de
struction is even now twisting and
braiding her golden hair; it may be
that the new Antony, who is to lose
this same old world again, already
stands upon the steps of Cleopatra’s
throne. Love’s day isnot overyet, not
has man outgrown the love of woman.
He who has won woman in the face
of daring rivals of enormous odds, of
gigantic obstacles, knows what love
means; he who has lost her, having
loved her, alone has measured with
his own soul the bitterness of earthly
sorrow, the depth of total loneliness,
the breadth of the wilderness of des
spair. And he who has sorrowed
long, who has long been alone, but
who has watched the small twinkling
ray still burning upon the distant
border of his desert—the faint glim
mer of a single star that was still
above the horizon of despair — he
only can tell what utter darkness can
be upon the face of the earth when
the last star has set forever.
Such a man was that Wanderer, as
he paced the deserted street in the
cruel, gloomy cold of the late day.
Cold and dim and sad the ancient
city had seemed before, but it w as a
thousandfold more melancholy now,
more black, more saturated with the
gloom of ages. From time to time
the Wanderer closed his heavy lids,
scarcely seeing what was before him,
conscious of nothing but the horror
which had so suddenly embraced his
whole existence. Then, all at once,
he was face to face with some one.
A woman stood still in the way, a
woman wrapped in rich furs, her
features covered by a dark veil which
could not hide the unequal fire of the
unlike eyes so keenly fixed on his.
“Have you found her?” asked the
soft voice *
“She Is dead,” answered the Wan
derer, growing very wl\lte.
<6\uthoi? .f-vh* isaaca' '©•
CHAFrER VIII.
URINU the
short silence
which followed
and while the
two were still
standing oppo
site to each
other, the un
nappy man's
look did not
change. Un
orna saw that
ho wus sure of
what he said,
and a thrill of
triumph. a s
jubilant as his
despair was proiouna, ran tnrougn
her. The enchanter had bound his
heart with his spells at the first
glance, and the wild nature was al
ready on fire. For one instant the
light shot from her eyes, and then
&ank again as quickly as it had come.
He was himself deceived and she
knew it. Beatrice might, indeed,
have died long ago. She could not
tell. But as she sought in the re
cesses of his mind, she saw that he
had no certainty of it, she saw the
black presentiment between him and
the image, for she could see. the
image too. She saw the rival she al
ready hated, not receiving a vision of
the reality, but perceiving it through
his mind, as it had always appeared
to him.
‘•She is not dead.”
“Not dead!” Tho Wanderer started,
but fully two seconds after she had
spoken, as a man struck by a bullet
in battle, in whom the suddenness of
the shock has destroyed the power of
instantaneous sensation.
“She is not dead. You have
dreamed it,” s&id Unorna, looking at
him steadily.
He pressed his hand to his fore
head and then moved it, as though
brushing away something that
troubled him.
“Come with me. I will show her
to you.”
“Whither? With you? How can
you bring me to her? What power
have you to lead the living to the
dead!”
“To the living. Come.”
“To the living—yes—I have
dreamed an evil dream—a dream of
death—she is not—no I see it now.
She is not dead. She is only very far
from me. very, very far. And yet it
was this morning.—but I was mis
taken, deceived by some faint like
ness. Ah, God! I thought I knew
her face! What is it that you want
with me?”
He asked the question as though
again suddenly aware of Unorna’s
presence. She had lifted her veil,
and her eyes drew his soul into their
mysterious depths.
“Will you walk with me? It is
very cold.”
They had been standing where they
had met. As she spoke. Unorna
looked up with an expression wholly
unlike the one he had seen a few
moments earlier. Her strong will
was suddenly veiled by the most
gentle and womanly manner, and a
little shiver, real or feigned, passed
over her as she drew the folds of her
fur more closely around her. The
man before her could resist the ag
gressive manifestation of her power,
but he was far too courteous to refuse
her request.
“Which way?” he asked, quietly.
“To the river,” she answered.
He turned and took her place by her
side. For some moments they walked
on in silence. It was already almost
| twilight.
ho far as he himself was concerned,
he was in no humor for talking. He
had seen almost everything in the
world, and had read or heard almost
everything that mankind had to say.
The streets of Prague had no novelty
for him, and there was no charm in
the chance acquaintance of a beauti
ful woman to bring words to his lips.
Unorna, for the first time in her
life, felt that she had not full control
of her faculties. She who was always
so calm, so thoroughly mistress of
her own powers, whose judgment
Keyork Arabian could deceive, but
whose self-possession he could not
move, except to anger, was at the
present moment both weak and unbal
anced. Ten minutes earlier, she had
fancied that it would be an easy thing
to fix her eyes on his and to cast the
veil of a half-sleep over his already
half-dreaming senses. She had fan
cied that it would be enough to say
“come,” and that he would follow.
She had formed the bold scheme of
attaching him to herself, hy visions
of the woman whom he loved as she
wished to be loved by him. She be
lieved that it he were once in that
state she could destroy the old love,
forever, or even turn it to hate, at
her will.
There were great blocks of stone in
the desolate place, landed there be
fore the river had frozen for a great
building whose gloomy, unfinished
mass stood waiting for the warmth of
spring to be completed. She led him
by the hand, passive and obedient as
a child, to n haltered spot and made
him sit down upon one of the stones,
was grow'1 p d irk.
I
CLfltiDiaS* 'ARQ/HflK SWGER'aC
“Look at me,” she said, standing
before him, and touching his brow.
He obeyed.
“You are the image in my eyes,”
she said, after a moment’s pause.
“Yes. I am the image in your
eyes,” he answered in a dull voice.
“You will never resist me again.
I command it. Hereafter it will be
enough for me to touch your hand, or
to look at you. and if I say ‘sleep1
you will instantly become the image
again. Do you understand that? 1
•I understand it.”
“Promise!”
“1 promise,” he replied, without
perceptible effort.
“You have been dreaming for years.
From this moment you must forget
all your dreams.11
His face expressed no understand
ing of whut she said. She hesitated
a moment, and then began to walk
slowly up and down before him. His
half-glazed look followed her as she
moved. She came back and laid her
hand upon his head.
“My will is yours. You have no
will of your own. You can
not think without me.” She spoke in
a tone of concentrated determination,
and a slight shiver passed over him.
“It is of no use to resist, for you
have promised never to resist me
again,” she continued. “All that I
command must take place in your mind
instantly, without opposition. Do you
understand?”
“Yes,” he answered, moving un
easily.
For some seconds she again held
her open palm upon his head. She
seemed to be evoking all her strength
for a great effort.
“Listen to me, and let everything 1
say take possession of your mind for
ever. My Will is your, you are the
image in my eyes, my word is your
law. You know what I please you
should know. You forget what
I command you to forget. You have
been mad these many years, and I am
curing you. You must forget your
madness. You have now forgotten it.
I have erased the memory of it with
my hand. There is nothing to re
member any more.”
The dull eyes, deep set beneath the
shadows of the overhanging brow,
seemed to seek her face in the dark,
ftnd for the third time there was a
nervous twitching of the shoulders
and limbs. Unorna knew the symp
tom well, but had never seen it return
so often, like a protest of the body
against the enslaving of the intelli
gence. She was nervous in spite of
her success. The immediate results
of hypnotic suggestion are not exactly
the same in all cases, even in the first
moments; its consequences may be
widely different in different individ
uals. Unorna, indeed, possessed an
extraordinary power, but on the other
hand she had to deal with an extraor
dinary organization. She knew this
instinctively, and endeavored to lead
the sleeping mind by degrees to the
condition in which she wished it to
remain.
She knew that if, when he awoke,
the name he loved still remained
in his memory, the result could not be
accomplished. She must produce en
tire forgetfulness, and to do this she
must wipe out every association, one
by one. She gathered her strength
during a short pause. She was greatly
encouraged by the fact that the ac
knowledgement of the delusion had
been followed by no convulsive reac
tion in the body. She was on the very
verge of a complete triumph, and the
concentration of her will during a few
moments longer might win the battle.
“And so,” she continued, presently,
“this man’s whole life has been a de
lusion, ever since he began to fancy,
in the fever of an illness that he loved
a certain woman. Is this clear to
you, my Mind?”
“It is quite clear,” answered the
muffled vpice.”
“He was so utterly mad, that he
even gave that woman a name—a
name, when she had never existed,
except in his imagination.”
“Except in his imagination,” re
peated the sleeper, without resist
ance.
“He called her Beatrice. The
name was suggested to him because
he had fallen ill in a city of the South
where a woman called Beatrice once
lived and was loved by a great poet.
That was the train of self-suggestion
in his delirium. Mind, do you under
stand?”
“He suggested to himself the name
in his illness.”
“You understand, therefore, my
Mind, that this Beatrice was entirely
the creature of the man’s imagination.
Beatrice does not exist, because she
never existed. Beatrice never had
any real being. Do you understand?”
This time she waited for an answer,
but none came. •
“You are my Mind," she said,fierce
ly. “Obey me! There never was any
Beatrice, there is no Beatrice now. and
there never can be.”
The lips twisted themselves, and the
face was as gray as the gray snow.
* ‘There is—no—Beatrice. ” The
wards came out slowly, and yet not
distinctly, as though wrung from the
heart by torture.
Unorna smiled at last, but the smile
bad not faded from her lips when the
air was rent by a terrible cry.
“By the Eternal God of Heaven!”
cried the ringing voice. “It is a lie
—a lie—a lie!”
She who had never feared anything
earthly or unearthly, shrank back.
She felt her heavy hair rising bodily
upon her head
The Wanderer had sprung to his
feet. The magnitude und horror of
the falsehood spoken had stabbed the
slumbering soul to sudden and ter
rible wakefulness.
“Beatrice!” ho cried, in long-drawn
agony.
Between him and Unorna some
thing passed by, something dark and
soft and noiseless, that took shape
slowly—a woman in black, a veil
thrown back from her forehead, her
white face turned toward the Wan
derer, her white hands hanging by
her side. She stood still, und the
face turned, and the eyes metUnorna's,
and Unorna knew that it was Beat
rice.
There she stood between them,
motionless as a statue, impalpable as
air, but real as life itself. The vision,
if it was a vision, lasted fully a min
ute. Never, to the day of her death,
was Unorna to forget that face, with
its deathlike purity of outline, with
its unspeakable nobility of features.
It vanished as suddenly as it had
appeared. A low, broken sound of
pain escaped from the Wanderer’s
lips, and with his arms extended ho
fell forward. The strong woman
caught him and he sunk to the
ground gently in her arms; his head
supported upon her shoulder.
There was a sound of quick foot
steps on the frozen snow. A Bohe
mian watchman, alarmed by the loud
jry, was running to the spot.
“What has happened?” he asked,
bending down to examine the couple.
“My friend has fainted,” said
Unorna. calmly. “He is subject to it.
You must help me to get him home.”
“Is it far?” asked the man.
“To the house of the Black Mother
of God.”
CHAPTER IX.
HE PRINCIP
al room of
Keyork Arabi
an’s dwelling
was in every
way character
istic of the
man. It re
ceived its dis
tinctive char
acter however,
neither from
its vaulted
roof, nor from the deep embrasures of
its windows, nor from its scanty fur
niture, but from the peculiar nature
of the many curious objects, large
and small, which hid the walls and
filled almost all the available space
on the floor. It was clear that every
one of the specimens illustrated some
point in the great question of life and
death which formed the chief study
of Keyork Arabian’s latter years; for
by far the greater number of the
preparations were dead bodies, of
men, or women, of children, of ani
mals, to all of which the old man had
endeavored to impart the appearance
of life, and in treating some of
which he had attained results
of a startling nature. The oste
ology of man and beast was, indeed,
represented, for a huge case, cover
ing one whole wall, was filled to the
top with a collection of many hundred
skulls of all races of mankind, and
where real specimens were missing,
their place was supplied by admirable
casts of craniums: but this reredos, so
to call it, of bony heads, formed but a
vast, grinning background for the
bodies which stood and sat and lay in
half-raised coffins and sarcophagi be
fore them, in every condition pro
duced by various known and lost
methods of embalming.
On that evening when the Wander
er fell to the earth before the shadow
of Beatrice, Keyork Arabian sat alone
in his charnel house.
A heavy book lay open on the table
by his side, and from time to time he
glanced at a phrase which seemed to
attract him. It was always the same
phrhse. and two words alone sufficed
to bring him beck to the contempla
tion of it. Those two words were
“Immortality” and “Soul.” He began
to speak aloud to himself, being by
nature fond of speech.
“Yes. The soul is immortal. I
an quite willing to grant that. But
it does not in any way follow that it
is the source of life, or the seat of
intelligence. It is not a condition of
life, but life is one of its conditions.
Does it leave the body when life is
artificially prolonged in a state of
unconsciousness—by hypnotism, for
instance? Since its presence depends
directly on life, so far as I know, it
belongs to the body rather than to the
brain. I once made a rabit live an
hour without its head. With a man
that experiment would need careful
manipulation—I would like to try
it. Or is it all a ques
tion of that phantom, vitality?
Take man at the very moment of
death—have everything ready, do
what you will—my artificial heart is
a very perfect instrument, mechan
ically speaking—and how long does
it take to start the artificial circula
tion through the carotid artery? Jiot
a hundredth part so long a time as
drowned people often lie before being
brought back, without a pulsation,
without a breath. Yet I never suc
ceeded, though I have made the arti
ficial heart work on a narcotized rab
bit, and the rabbit died instantly when
I stopped the machine, which proves
that it was the machine that kept it
alive. Perhaps, if one applied it to a
man just before death, he might live
. on indefinitely, grow fat and flourish
so long as the glass heart worked.
Where would his soul be then? In
me glass heart, which would have
become the seat of life? Everything,
sensible or absurd which I can put
into words makos the bouI seem an
impossibility—and yet there is some
thing which I cannot pot into words,
which proves the soul's existence be
yond all doubt. I wish I could buy
somebody’s soul and experiment with
It.”
He ceased and sat staring at his
specimens, going over in his memory
the fruitless experiments of a lifetime.
A loud knocking roused him from his
reverie. He hastened lo open the
door, and was confronted by Unorna.
She was paler than u-ual, and he saw
from her expression that thore was
something wrong.
“What is the matter?” he asked,
almost roughly.
“He is in a carriage down stairs,”
she answered quickly. Something has
happened to him. I cannot wake him
—you must take him in—”
“To die on my hunds? Not I!”
laughed Keyork, in his deepest voice.
“My collection is complete enough.”
She seized him suddenly by botli
arms, and brought her face near to
his.
“If you dare to speak of deatli—”
She grew intensely white, with a
fear she had not known before in her
life. Keyork laughed again, and
tried to shake himself free of her
grip.
“You seem a little nervous,” he
observed, calmly. “What do you
want of me!>”
“Your help, man, and quickly. Call
your people—have him carried up
stairs—revive him—do something to
bring him back.”
Keyork’s voice changed.
“Is he in real danger?” he asked.
“What have you done to him?”
“Oh, I do not know what I have
done!” cried Unorna, desperately.
“I do not know what I fear—”
She let him go and leaned against
the doorway, covering her face with
her hands. Keyork stared at her.
He had never seen her show so much
emotion before. Then he made up
his mind. He drew her into his room
and left her standing and staring at
him while he thrust a few objects into
his pockets and threw his fur coat
over him.
' ‘Stay here till 1 come back, he
said, authoratively, as he went out.
“But you will bring him here?” she
cried, suddenly conscious of his going.
The door was already closed. She
tried to open it. in order to follow
him, but she could not. The lock
was of an unusual kind, and either in
tentionally or accidentally Keyork
had shut her in. For a few moments
she tried to force the springs, shak
ing the heavy woodwork a very little
in the great effort she made. Then,
seeing it was useless, she walked
slowly to the table and sat down in
Keyork’s chair.
the reaction from the great phys
ical efforts she had made overcame
her. It seemed to her that Keyork’s
only reason for taking him away must
be that he was dead. Her head
throbbed and her eyes began to burn.
The great passion had its will of her.
and stabbed her through and through
with such pain as she had never
dreamed of. The horror of it all
was too deep for tears, and tears
were by nature very far from her
eyes at all times. She pressed
her hands to her brpast and rocked
herself gently backward and forward.
There was no reason left in her. To
her there was no reason left in any
thing, if he were gone. And if Ke
york Arabian could not save him. who
could?
The mechanical effort of rocking
her body from side to side brought no
rest, the blow she struck upon her
breast in her frenzy she felt no more
than the open door had felt those she
had dealt it with the club.
Driven to desperation she sprang at
last from her seat and cried aloud:
“I would give my soul to know that
he is safe!”
The words had not died away, when
a low groan passed, as it were, around
the room. The sound was distinctly
that of a human voice, but it seemed
to come from all sides at once. Un
orna stood still and listened.
“Who is in this room?” she asked
in loud, clear tones.
Again that awful sound filled the
ropm. and rose now almost to a wail
aiife died away.
IJtiorna's brow flushed angrily. In
the direct line of her vision stood the
head of the Malayan woman, its soft,
embalmed eyes fixed on hers.
“If there are people hidden here,”
cried Unorna fiercely, “let them show
themselves, let them face me. I say
it again—I would give my immortal
soul!”
Ibis time Lnorna saw as well as
heard. The groan came and the wail
followed it and rose to a shriek that
deafened her. And she saw how the
face of the Malayan woman changed:
she saw it move in the bright lamp
light, she saw the mouth open. Hor
rified she looked away. Her eyes fell
upon the squatting savages—their
heads were all turned toward her.
she was sure that she could see their
shrunken chests heave as took breath
to utter that terrible cry again and
again—even the fallen body of the
African stirred on the floor, not five
paces from her. Would their shriek
ing never stop? All of them—every
one—even to the white skulls high up
in the case—not one skeleton, notone
dead body that did not mouth at her
and scream and moan and screani
again.
Unorna covered her ears with her
hands to shut out the hideous, un
earthly noise. She closed her eyes
lest she should see those dead things
move. Then came another noise.
Were they descending from their ped
estals and cases and marching upon
her, a heavy footed company of
corpses?
Fearless to the last, she dropped
her hands and opened her eyes.
LTo be continued.!