“Safe—where?” shouted the little man, his hands already on his furs. The Individual, too, had sprung across the room like a cat and was helping him. In five seconds Keyork would have been out of the house.
“In a convent. I took her there, and saw the gate close behind her.”
Keyork dropped his furs and stood still a moment. The Individual, always unmoved, rearranged the coat and cap neatly in their place, following all his master’s movements, however, with his small eyes. Then the sage broke out in a different strain. He flung his arms round the Wanderer’s body and attempted to embrace him.
“You have saved my life!—the curse of the three black angels on you for not saying so first!” he cried in an agony of ecstasy. “Preserver! What can I do for you?—Saviour of my existence, how can I repay you! You shall live forever, as I will; you shall have all my secrets; the gold spider shall spin her web in your dwelling; the Part of Fortune shall shine on your path, it shall rain jewels on your roof; and your winter shall have snows of pearls—you shall—”
“Good Heavens! Keyork,” interrupted the Wanderer. “Are you mad? What is the matter with you?”
“Mad? The matter? I love you! I worship you! I adore you! You have saved her life, and you have saved mine; you have almost killed me with fright and joy in two moments, you have—”
“Be sensible, Keyork. Unorna is quite safe, but we must do something about Kafka and—”
The rest of his speech was drowned in another shout from the gnome, ending in a portentous peal of laughter. He had taken his glass again and was toasting himself.
“To Keyork, to his long life, to his happiness!” he cried. Then he wet his lips again in the golden juice, and the Individual, unmoved, presented him with a second napkin.
The wine seemed to steady him, and he sat down again in his place.