The Wanderer drew a long breath of relief as he helped Keyork to make the necessary arrangements.
“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.