Moreover, though Keyork
had declared the patient out of danger, there seemed no absolute
certainty that a relapse would not take place before morning, and Kafka
might actually lay in the certainty--delusive enough--that Unorna could
not return until the following day.
He did not dare to take upon himself the responsibility of calling some
one to help him and of removing the Moravian in his present condition.
The man was still very weak and either altogether unconscious, or
sleeping the sleep of exhaustion. The weather, too, was bitterly cold,
and the exposure to the night air might bring on immediate and fatal
consequences. He examined Kafka closely and came to the conclusion that
he was really asleep. To wake him would be absolutely cruel as well as
dangerous. He looked kindly at the weary face and then began to walk
up and down between the plants, coming back at the end of every turn to
look again and assure himself that no change had taken place.
After some time he began to wonder at the total silence in the house,
or, rather, the silence which was carefully provided for in the
conservatory impressed itself upon him for the first time. It was
strange, he thought, that no one came to put out the lamps. He thought
of looking out into the vestibule beyond, to see whether the lights were
still burning there. To his great surprise he found the door securely
fastened. Keyork Arabian had undoubtedly locked him in, and to all
intents and purposes he was a prisoner.
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