“His name? It is strange, but I cannot recall it. He is very tall, wears a dark beard, has a pale, thoughtful face. But I need not describe him, for he told me that he had been with you this morning. That is not the point.”
He spoke carelessly and scarcely glanced at Unorna while speaking.
“What of him?” she inquired, trying to seem as indifferent as her companion.
“He is a little mad, poor man, that is all. It struck me that, if you would, you might save him. I know something of his story, though not much. He once loved a young girl, now doubtless dead, but whom he still believes to be alive, and he spends—or wastes—his life in a useless search for her. You might cure him of the delusion.”
“How do you know that the girl is dead?”
“She died in Egypt, four years ago,” answered Keyork. “They had taken her there in the hope of saving her, for she was at death’s door already, poor child.”
“But if you convince him of that.”
“There is no convincing him, and if he were really convinced he would die himself. I used to take an interest in the man, and I know that you could cure him in a simpler and safer way. But of course it lies with you.”
“If you wish it, I will try,” Unorna answered, turning her face from the light. “But he will probably not come back to me.”
“He will. I advised him very strongly to come back, very strongly indeed. I hope I did right. Are you displeased?”