al before it had been impressed upon his sleeping mind with all
the tyrannic force of Unorna's strong will. And there was but little
probability that Israel Kafka would ever learn what had actually been
happening to him while he fancied that he had been travelling swiftly
from place to place. He could still wonder, indeed, that he should
have yielded so easily to Keyork's pressing invitation to accompany the
latter upon such an extraordinary flight, but he remembered then his
last interview with Unorna and it seemed almost natural that in his
despair he should have chosen to go away. Not that his passion for
the woman was dead. Intentionally, or by an oversight, Unorna had not
touched upon the question of his love for her, in the course of her
otherwise well-considered suggestions. Possibly she had believed that
the statement she had forced from his lips was enough and that he would
forget her without any further action on her part. Possibly, too, Unorna
was indifferent and was content to let him suffer, believing that his
devotion might still be turned to some practical use. However that may
be, when Israel Kafka opened his eyes in the carriage he still loved
her, though he was conscious that in his manner of loving a change had
taken place, of which he was destined to realise the consequences before
another day had passed.

When Keyork answered his first remark, he turned and looked at the old
man.

"I suppose you are tougher than I," he said, languidly. "You will hardly
believe it, but I have been dozing already, here, in the carriage, since
we left the station."

"No harm in that. Sleep is a great restorative," laughed Keyork.

"Are you so glad to be in Prague again?" asked Kafka. "It is a
melancholy place. But you laugh as though you actually liked the sight
of the black houses and the gray snow and the silent people."

"How can a place be melancholy? The seat of melancholy is the liver.
Imagine a city with a liver--of brick and mortar, or stone and cement,
a huge mass of masonry buried in its centre, like an enormous fetish,
exercising a mysterious influence over the city's health--then you may
imagine a city as suffering from melancholy."

"How absurd!"

"My dear boy, I rarely say absurd things," answered Keyork
imperturbably. "Besides, as a matter of fact, there is nothing absurd.
But you suggested rather a fantastic idea to my imagination. The brick
liver is not a bad conception. Far down in the bowels