“How peacefully he sleeps!” she thought. “He is dreaming of her.”
The dawn came stealing on, not soft and blushing as in southern lands, but cold, resistless and grim as ancient fate; not the maiden herald of the sun with rose-tipped fingers and grey, liquid eyes, but hard, cruel, sullen, and less darkness following upon a greater and going before a dull, sunless and heavy day.
The door opened somewhat noisily and a brisk step fell upon the marble pavement. Unorna rose noiselessly to her feet and hastening along the open space came face to face with Keyork Arabian. He stopped and looked up at her from beneath his heavy brows, with surprise and suspicion. She raised one finger to her lips.
“You here already?” he asked, obeying her gesture and speaking in a low voice.
“Hush! Hush!” she whispered, not satisfied. “They are asleep. You will wake them.”
Keyork came forward. He could move quietly enough when he chose. He glanced at the Wanderer.
“He looks comfortable enough,” he whispered, half contemptuously.
Then he bent down over Israel Kafka and carefully examined his face. To him the ghastly pallor meant nothing. It was but the natural result of excessive exhaustion.
“Put him into a lethargy,” said he under his breath, but with authority in his manner.
Unorna shook her head. Keyork’s small eyes brightened angrily.