“He seems no worse,” said Unorna, contemplating the massive, peaceful face.

“I do not like the word ‘seems,’” answered Keyork.  “It is the refuge of inaccurate persons, unable to distinguish between facts and appearances.”

“You object to everything to-day.  Are there any words which I may use without offending your sense of fitness in language?”

“None which do not express a willing affirmation of all I say.  I will receive any original speech on your part at the point of the sword.  You have done enough damage to-day, without being allowed the luxury of dismembering common sense.  Seems, you say!  By all that is unholy!  By Eblis, Ahriman, and the Three Black Angels!  He is worse, and there is no seeming.  The heat is greater, the pulse is weaker, the heart flutters like a sick bird.”

Unorna’s face showed her anxiety.

“I am sorry,” she said, in a low voice.

“Sorry!  No doubt you are.  It remains to be seen whether your sorrow can be utilized as a simple, or macerated in tears to make a tonic, or sublimated to produce a corrosive which will destroy the canker, death.  But be sorry by all means.  It occupies your mind without disturbing me, or injuring the patient.  Be sure that if I can find an active application for your sentiment, I will give you the rare satisfaction of being useful.”

“You have the art of being the most intolerably disagreeable of living men when it pleases you.”

“When you displease me, you should say.  I warn you that if he dies—­our friend here—­I will make further studies in the art of being unbearable to you.  You will certainly be surprised by the result.”

“Nothing that you could say or do would surprise me.”

“Indeed?  We shall see.”

“I will leave you to your studies, then.  I have been here too long as it is.”

She moved and arranged the pillow under the head of the sleeping giant and adjusted the folds of his robe.  Her touch was tender and skilful in spite of her ill-suppressed anger.  Then she turned away and went towards the door.  Keyork Arabian watched her until her hand was upon the latch.  His sharp eyes twinkled, as though he expected something amusing to occur.

“Unorna!” he said, suddenly, in an altered voice.  She stopped and looked back.

“Well?”

“Do not be angry, Unorna.  Do not go away like this.”

Unorna turned, almost fiercely, and came back a step.

“Keyork Arabian, do you think you can play upon me as on an instrument?  Do you suppose that I will come and go at your word like a child—­or like a dog?  Do you think you can taunt me at one moment, and flatter me the next, and find my humour always at your command?”

The gnome-like little man looked down, made a sort of inclination of his short body, and laid his hand upon his heart.

“I was never presumptuous, my dear lady.  I never had the least intention of taunting you, as you express it, and as for your humour—­can you suppose that I could expect to command, where it is only mine to obey?”