His head swam in the stifling scirocco.

He had sent for a local physician, and the old-fashioned doctor had then and there taken blood from his arm.
He had lost so much that he had fainted.

The doctor had been gone when Keyork returned, and the sage had been very angry, abusing in most violent terms the ignorance which could still apply such methods.

Israel Kafka knew that the lancet had left a wound on his arm and that the scar was still visible.

He remembered, too, that he had often felt tired since, and that Keyork had invariably reminded him of the circumstances, attributing to it the weariness from which he suffered, and indulging each time in fresh abuse of the benighted doctor.
Very skilfully had the whole story been put together in all its minutest details, carefully thought out and written down in the form of a journal before it had been impressed upon his sleeping mind with all the tyrannic force of Unorna's strong will.