"The united patience of the seven archangels, coupled with that of Job
and Simon Stylites, would not survive your acquaintance for a day,"
observed Keyork Arabian.
"Is he mine or yours?" Unorna asked, turning to him and pointing to the
sleeper.
She was quite ready to face her companion after the first shock of his
unexpected appearance. His small blue eyes sparkled angrily.
"I am not versed in the law concerning real estate in human kind in the
Kingdom of Bohemia," he answered. "You may have property in a couple of
hundredweight, more or less, of old bones rather the worse for the wear
and tear of a century, but I certainly have some ownership in the life.
Without me, you would have been the possessor of a remarkably fine
skeleton by this time--and of nothing more."
As he spoke, his extraordinary voice ran over half a dozen notes of
portentous depth, like the opening of a fugue on the pedals of an organ.
Unorna laughed scornfully.
"He is mine, Keyork Arabian, alive or dead. If the experiment fails,
and he dies, the loss is mine, not yours. Moreover, what I have done is
done, and I will neither submit to your reproaches nor listen to your
upbraidings. Is that enough?"
"Of its kind, quite. I will build an altar to Ingratitude, we will bury
our friend beneath the shrine, and you shall serve in the temple. You
could deify all the cardinal sins if you would only give your attention
to the subject, merely by the monstrously imposing proportions you would
know how to give them.
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