The room of Keyork Arabian’s was in every way of the man. In the which at a visitor’s judgment, some time was needed to the of the place. The was apparent, as well as small of the flooring. Several windows, which might have been large had they the in which they were set, the when there was of it in Prague to the purpose of illumination. So as be from the street, they were without and with against the cold, but from it was that the tall in the thick had been in with a in which the modern were set. So as it was possible to see, the room had but two doors; the one, by a of a Persian carpet, opened directly upon the of the house; the other, opposite, gave to the apartments. On account of its size, however, the had for his place this chamber, which was almost large to be called a hall, and here he had deposited the and of objects, or, more property speaking, of remains, upon the study of which he a great part of his time.
Two large tables, three chairs and a the list of all that be called furniture. The tables were massive, dark, and old-fashioned; the at each end of thick into a design of curves, and by to them with large bolts. The chairs were stools, with and well-worn of velvet. The in no respect from ordinary in appearance, and was with a dark Bokhara of no great value; but so as its use was concerned, the of books and papers that upon it that Keyork was more to make a book-case of it than a couch.
The room its neither from its roof, from the of its windows, from its furniture, but from the nature of the many objects, large and small, which the and almost all the available space on the floor. It was clear that every one of the some point in the great question of life and death which the study of Keyork Arabian’s years; for by the number of the were bodies, of men, of women, of children, of animals, to all of which the old man had to the of life, and in some of which he had results of a nature. The of man and was represented, for a case, one whole wall, was to the top with a of many hundred of all of mankind, and where were missing, their place was by of craniums; but this reredos, so to call it, of heads, but a vast, for the which and sat and in half-raised and them, in every condition produced by and methods of embalming. There were, it is true, a number of skeletons, here and there in attitudes, white and in their nakedness, the of beings, the of orang-outangs, of large and small to the little of a common frog, on as as hairs, which upon an old book near the of a table, as though it had just to that point in of a and was to a spring. But the did not these at the glance. Solemn, silent, expressive, three Egyptians, at an as though to give them a of their fellow-dead, the from their and arms and shoulders, their jet-black and and by Keyork’s hand, their almost to the of life by one of his processes, their joints so by his art that their arms had taken natural positions again, over the of the in which they had rested and through thirty centuries. For the man had his idea in every shape and with every experiment, testing, as it were, the of the animal by the of life-like and and which it be to take after a of three thousand years. And he had the that, in the nature of things, the might vie, in the action of time, with the of the pyramids. Those had been his trials. The results of many others the room. Here a group of South Americans, in the of an tree, had been almost to the of life, and were in a over the of a meal—as cold as themselves and as human. There, the of an African, upon a club, fierce, grinning, only in the to be terrible. There again, a in rich stuffs, the and of a Malayan lady—decapitated for her sins, so that the soft dark still looked out from the heavy, half-drooping lids, and the full lips, still coloured, a little to the teeth. Other there were, more still, of preservation, if not of semi-resuscitation, over decay, on its own most special ground. Triumphs all, yet almost in the of the old student, they the of an almost skill and science to revive, if but for one second, the very smallest of the body. Strange and wild were the he had made; many and great the and blood on his in the of that one which would that death might yet be conquered; many the engines, the machines, the hearts, the of electricity that he had invented; many the powerful he had to the long nerves, or those which but two days had to feel. The was still undiscovered, the meaning of his study, his pursuit. The died, and yet the nerves still be to act as though alive for the space of a hours—in cases for a day. With his he had a man across a room from the of a of musk—on the day; with his he had the themselves, and move and under the electric current—provided it had not been too late. But that “too late” had him, and from his that life might be when once gone, he had to what the of the two, to the problem of life so long as its magic in the and blood. And now he that he was very near the truth; how near he had yet to learn.
On that when the Wanderer to the earth the of Beatrice, Keyork Arabian sat alone in his charnel-house. The light of two powerful in the place, for Keyork loved light, like all those who are to life for its own sake. The yellow the life-like of his companions, and to the objects that the almost to the of the vault—objects which all him of the of long ago extinct, of weapons, of of leather and of fish skin, Amurian, Siberian, Gothic, Mexican, and Peruvian; African and Red Indian masks, models of and canoes, drums, Liberian idols, Runic calendars, of skulls, and ornaments, all producing together an of colour—all in which the man himself had taken but a interest, the result of his study—life in all its shapes.
He sat alone. The African looked at his dwarf-like as though in of such half-grown humanity; the Malayan lady’s its him; of beings to in pity, in scorn, their would-be reviver. Keyork Arabian was used to their company and to their silence. Far the common of humanity, if one of them had all at once to him and spoken to him he would have started with and with rapture. But they were all still dead, and they neither spoke or moved a finger. A that had more in it than any which had passed through his brain for many years now and him. A book open on the table by his side, and from time to time he at a phrase which to him. It was always the same phrase, and two alone to him to of it. Those two were “Immortality” and “Soul.” He to speak to himself, being by nature of speech.
“Yes. The is immortal. I am to that. But it not in any way that it is the of life, or the seat of intelligence. The Buddhists it from the individuality. And yet life it, and when life ends it takes its departure. How soon? I do not know. It is not a condition of life, but life is one of its conditions. Does it the when life is in a of unconsciousness—by hypnotism, for instance? Is it more closely up with animal life, or with intelligence? If with either, has it a place in the heart, or in the brain? Since its presence directly on life, so as I know, it to the than to the brain. I once a live an hour without its head. With a man that would need manipulation—I would like to try it. Or is it all a question of that phantom, Vitality? Then the presence of the upon the of the nerves, and, as as we know, it must the not more than twenty-four hours after death, and it not the at the moment of dying. But if of the nerves, then what is the condition of the in the state? Unorna our old friend there—and our one, too. For her, they have nerves. At her touch they wake, they sleep, they move, they feel, they speak. But they have no nerves for me. I can cut them with knives, them, turn the life-blood of the one into the of the other—they nothing. If the is of the nerves—or of the vitality, then they have for Unorna, and none for me. That is absurd. Where is that old man’s soul? He has slept for years. Has not his been else in the meanwhile? If we keep him asleep for centuries, or for of centuries, like that alive in a rock, would his soul—able by the to pass through or universes—stay by him? Could an for a thousand years by being hypnotised? Verily the is a very thing, and what is still more is that I in it. Suppose the case of the sinner. Suppose that he not by his trick. Then his must taste the condition of the while he is asleep. But when he is at last, and to be alive, his must come to him, from the flames. Unpleasant thought! Keyork Arabian, you had not go to sleep at present. Since all that is nonsense, on the of it, I am to that the presence of the is in some way a condition for life, than upon it. I wish I a soul. It is that life is not a or chemical process. I have gone too to that. Take man at the very moment of death—have ready, do what you will—my is a very perfect instrument, speaking—and how long it take to start the through the artery? Not a hundredth part so long a time as people often being back, without a pulsation, without a breath. Yet I succeeded, though I have the work on a rabbit, and the died when I stopped the machine, which proves that it was the machine that it alive. Perhaps if one it to a man just death he might live on indefinitely, and so long as the worked. Where would his be then? In the heart, which would have the seat of life? Everything, or absurd, which I can put into makes the an impossibility—and yet there is something which I cannot put into words, but which proves the soul’s all doubt. I wish I somebody’s and with it.”
He and sat at his specimens, going over in his memory the of a lifetime. A loud him from his reverie. He to open the door and was by Unorna. She was than usual, and he saw from her that there was something wrong.
“What is the matter?” he asked, almost roughly.
“He is in a downstairs,” she answered quickly. “Something has to him. I cannot wake him, you must take him in—”
“To die on my hands? Not I!” laughed Keyork in his voice. “My is complete enough.”
She him by arms, and her near to his.
“If you to speak of death——”
She white, with a she had not in her life. Keyork laughed again, and to shake himself free of her grip.
“You a little nervous,” he calmly. “What do you want of me?”
“Your help, man, and quickly! Call your people! Have him upstairs! Revive him! do something to him back!”
Keyork’s voice changed.
“Is he in danger?” he asked. “What have you done to him?”
“Oh, I do not know what I have done!” Unorna desperately. “I do not know what I fear——”
She let him go and against the doorway, her with her hands. Keyork at her. He had her so much before. Then he up his mind. He her into his room and left her and at him while he a objects into his pockets and his over him.
“Stay here till I come back,” he said, authoritatively, as he out.
“But you will him here?” she cried, of his going.
The door had already closed. She to open it, in order to him, but she not. The lock was of an kind, and either or Keyork had her in. For a moments she to the springs, the work a very little in the great she made. Then, that it was useless, she walked slowly to the table and sat in Keyork’s chair.
She had been in the place before, and she was as free from any of the company as Keyork himself. To her, as to him, they were but specimens, each having a interest, as a thing, but all of that individuality, of that grim, malice, of that weird, soulless, physical power to harm, with which bodies.
She gave them a glance, and she gave them no thought. She sat the table, supporting her in her hands and trying to think of what had just happened. She well how the Wanderer had upon the ground, his supported on her knee, while the had gone to call a carriage. She how she had all her and had helped to him in, as have done. She every detail of the place, and she had done, to the that she had up his and a he had and had taken them into the vehicle with her. The drive through the ill-lighted was clear to her. She still the pressure of his as he had against her; she see the by the light of the as they passed, and of the that in of the with each of the over the paving-stones. She what she had done, her to wake him, at regular and with the of success, then more and more as she that something had put him the of her powers for the moment, if not for ever; his pallor, his hands, his stillness—she it all, as one in life a moment after they have taken place. But there also the of a single moment which her whole being had been at the of an so that it to alone of any by which to measure its duration. She, who call up in the minds of others, who the of her in order to see places and in the of trance, she, who no in her own act, had something very vividly, which she not had been a reality, and which she yet not account for as a of second sight. That dark, presence that had come bodily, yet without a body, her and the man she loved was neither a woman, the of her own brain, a in state. She had not the least idea how long it had there; it an hour, and it but a second. But that thing had a life and a power of its own. Never had she that through her, that in her hair. It was a thing of omen, and the was already about to be fulfilled. The of the dark woman had at the of the in which he her; she had and had come to her own, to Unorna of what most on earth—and she take him, surely, to the place she came. How Unorna tell that he was not already gone, that his had not passed already, when she was his weight from the ground?
At the she started and looked up. She had almost to see that her again. But there was nothing. The in their of life under the light. The frowned, the of the Malayan woman still its and expression. Far in the the of grinned, as though at the memory of their four hundred lives; the of the orang-outang out its long arms it; the still the of their meal. The was oppressive.
Unorna rose to her in anxiety. She did not know how long she had been alone. She at the door for the of on the stairs, but all was silent. Surely, Keyork had not taken him elsewhere, to his lodgings, where he would not be for. That was impossible. She must have the of the as the away. She at the and saw that the were with small, thick which would the sound. She to the nearest, the aside, opened the and the second and looked out. Though the was dim, she see well that the was no longer there. It was the night of the year and the air cut her like a knife, but she would not back. She her in directions, in the for the moving lights of a carriage, but she saw nothing. At last she the window and to the door. They must be on the stairs, or still below, perhaps, waiting for help to him up. The cold might kill him in his present state, a cold that would kill most to it. Furiously she the door. It was useless. She looked about for an to help her strength. She see nothing—no—yes—there was the iron-wood of the black giant. She and took it from his hand. The thing all over, and as though it would fall, and its great at her, but she was not afraid. She the and upon the door, upon the lock, upon the panels with all her might. The terrible sent the staircase, but the door did not yield, the lock either. Was the door of iron and the lock of granite? she asked herself. Then she a strange, noise her. She and looked. The had from his to the floor, with a dull, thud. She did not desist, but the again and again with all her strength. Then her arms and she the club. It was all in vain. Keyork had locked her in and had taken the Wanderer away.
She to her seat and into an of despair. The from the great physical she had her. It to her that Keyork’s only for taking him away must be that he was dead. Her and her to burn. The great had its will of her and her through and through with such pain as she had of. The of it all was too for tears, and were by nature very from her at all times. She pressed her hands to her and herself and forwards. There was no left in her. To her there was no left in anything if he were gone. And if Keyork Arabian not him, who could? She now what that old had meant, when they had told her that love would come but once, and that the of her life in a mistake on that day. Love had come upon her like a whirlwind, he had upon her like the lightning, she had to him and keep him, and he was gone again—for ever. Gone through her own fault, through her in trying to do by art what love would have done for himself. Blind, insensate, mad! She herself with curses, and her was and distorted. With she at her until it about her like a curtain. In the thirst of a great for that would not she her bosom, she her face, she with her white the table her, she her own throat, as though she would tear the life out of herself. Then again her and her to and fro, and low from her now and then, of a wild, language in which it is to than to bless. As the love that had in a hours taken such complete of her was boundless, so its were illimitable. In a nature to fear, the for another a revolution. Her anger against herself was as terrible as her for him she loved was paralysing. The to act, the terror it should be too late, the of acting at all so long as she was in the room, all three came over her at once.
The of her from to no rest; the she upon her in her she no more than the door had those she had it with the club. She not the of pain for her suffering. Again the time passed without her or of its passage.
Driven to she at last from her seat and aloud.
“I would give my to know that he is safe!”
The had not died away when a low passed, as it were, the room. The was that of a voice, but it to come from all at once. Unorna still and listened.
“Who is in this room?” she asked in loud clear tones.
Not a stirred. She from one to another, as though that among the some being had taken a disguise. But she them all. There was nothing new to her there. She was not afraid. Her returned.
“My soul!—yes!” she again, on the table, “I would give it if I know, and it would be little enough!”
Again that the room, and rose now almost to a and died away.
Unorna’s angrily. In the direct line of her the of the Malayan woman, its soft, on hers.
“If there are people here,” Unorna fiercely, “let them themselves! let them me! I say it again—I would give my soul!”
This time Unorna saw as well as heard. The came, and the it and rose to a that her. And she saw how the of the Malayan woman changed; she saw it move in the lamp-light, she saw the mouth open. Horrified, she looked away. Her upon the savages—their were all her, she was sure that she see their as they took to that terrible again and again; the of the African on the floor, not five from her. Would their stop? All of them—every one—even to the white high up in the case; not one skeleton, not one that did not mouth at her and and and again.
Unorna her ears with her hands to out the hideous, noise. She closed her she should see those move. Then came another noise. Were they from their and cases and upon her, a heavy-footed company of corpses?
Fearless to the last, she her hands and opened her eyes.
“In of you all,” she defiantly, “I will give my to have him safe!”
Something was close to her. She and saw Keyork Arabian at her elbow. There was an odd on his face.
“Then give me that of yours, if you please,” he said. “He is safe and peacefully asleep. You must have a little while I was away.”
