“You seem a little nervous,” he observed calmly. “What do you want of me?”
“Your help, man, and quickly! Call your people! Have him carried upstairs! Revive him! do something to bring him back!”
Keyork’s voice changed.
“Is he in real danger?” he asked. “What have you done to him?”
“Oh, I do not know what I have done!” cried Unorna desperately. “I do not know what I fear——”
She let him go and leaned against the doorway, covering her face with her hands. Keyork stared at her. He had never seen her show so much emotion before. Then he made up his mind. He drew her into his room and left her standing and staring at him while he thrust a few objects into his pockets and threw his fur coat over him.
“Stay here till I come back,” he said, authoritatively, as he went out.
“But you will bring him here?” she cried, suddenly conscious of his going.
The door had already closed. She tried to open it, in order to follow him, but she could not. The lock was of an unusual kind, and either intentionally or accidentally Keyork had shut her in. For a few moments she tried to force the springs, shaking the heavy wood work a very little in the great effort she made. Then, seeing that it was useless, she walked slowly to the table and sat down in Keyork’s chair.
She had been in the place before, and she was as free from any unpleasant fear of the dead company as Keyork himself. To her, as to him, they were but specimens, each having a peculiar interest, as a thing, but all destitute of that individuality, of that grim, latent malice, of that weird, soulless, physical power to harm, with which timid imaginations endow dead bodies.