“And now that you are quite harmless, my dear friend,” he said, addressing Israel Kafka, “I hope to make you see the folly of your ways. I suppose you know that you are quite mad and that the proper place for you is a lunatic asylum.”
The Wanderer laid his hand heavily upon Keyork’s shoulder.
“Remember what I told you,” he said sternly. “He will be reasonable now. Make your fellow understand that he is to let him go.”
“Better shut the door first,” said Keyork, suiting the action to the word and then coming back.
“Make haste!” said the Wanderer with impatience. “The man is ill, whether he is mad or not.”
Released at last from the Individual’s iron grip, Israel Kafka staggered a little. The Wanderer took him kindly by the arm, supporting his steps and leading him to a seat. Kafka glanced suspiciously at him and at the other two, but seemed unable to make any further effort and sank back with a low groan. His face grew pale and his eyelids drooped.
“Get some wine—something to restore him,” the Wanderer said.
Keyork looked at the Moravian critically for a moment.
“Yes,” he assented, “he is more exhausted than I thought. He is not very dangerous now.” Then he went in search of what was needed. The Individual retired to a distance and stood looking on with folded arms.
“Do you hear me?” asked the Wanderer, speaking gently. “Do you understand what I say?”