“You are as kind as you are good, Unorna, and as good as you are beautiful,” he said, and with a gesture which would have been courtly in a man of nobler stature, but which was almost grotesque in such a dwarf, he raised her fingers to his lips.

This time, no peal of laugher followed to destroy the impression he had produced upon Unorna.  She let her hand rest in his a few seconds, and then gently withdrew it.

“I must be going,” she said.

“So soon?” exclaimed Keyork regretfully.  “There were many things I had wished to say to you to-day, but if you have no time——­”

“I can spare a few minutes,” answered Unorna, pausing.  “What is it?”

“One thing is this.”  His face had again become impenetrable as a mask of old ivory, and he spoke in his ordinary way.  “This is the question.  I was in the Teyn Kirche before I came here.”

“In church!” exclaimed Unorna in some surprise, and with a slight smile.

“I frequently go to church,” answered Keyork gravely.  “While there, I met an old acquaintance of mine, a strange fellow whom I have not seen for years.  The world is very small.  He is a great traveller—­a wanderer through the world.”

Unorna looked up quickly, and a very slight colour appeared in her cheeks.

“Who is he?” she asked, trying to seem indifferent.  “What is his name?”

“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?”

“Not at all!” Unorna laughed a little.  “And if he comes, how am I to convince him that he is mistaken, and that the girl is dead?”