to strike behind him with his sharp blade of which a single touch would have severed muscle and sinew like silk threads, but the bear-like embrace seemed to confine his whole body, his arms and even his wrists.  Then he felt himself turned round and the Individual pushed him towards the middle of the hall.  The Wanderer was advancing quickly, and Keyork Arabian, who had again fallen behind, peered at Kafka from behind his tall companion with a grotesque expression in which bodily fear and a desire to laugh at the captive were strongly intermingled.

“It is of no use to resist,” said the Wanderer quietly.  “We are too strong for you.”

Kafka said nothing, but his bloodshot eyes glared up angrily at the tall man’s face.

“He looks dangerous, and he still has that thing in his hand,” said Keyork Arabian.  “I think I will give him ether at once while the Individual holds him.  Perhaps you could do it.”

“You will do nothing of the kind,” the Wanderer answered.  “What a coward you are, Keyork!” he added contemptuously.

Going to Kafka’s side he took him by the wrist of the hand which held the knife.  But Kafka still clutched it firmly.

“You had better give it up,” he said.

Kafka shook his head angrily and set his teeth, but the Wanderer unclasped the fingers by quiet force and took the weapon away.  He handed it to Keyork, who breathed a sigh of relief as he looked at it, smiling at last, and holding his head on one side.

“To think,” he soliloquised, “that an inch of such pretty stuff as Damascus steel, in the right place, can draw the sharp red line between time and eternity!”

He put the knife tenderly away in the bosom of his fur coat.  His whole manner changed and he came forward with his usual, almost jaunty step.

“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.