He handed it to Keyork, who breathed a sigh of relief as he looked at it, smiling at last, and holding his head on one side.
"To think," he soliloquised, "that an inch of such pretty stuff as Damascus steel, in the right place, can draw the sharp red line between time and eternity!" He put the knife tenderly away in the bosom of his fur coat.

His whole manner changed and he came forward with his usual, almost jaunty step.
"And now that you are quite harmless, my dear friend," he said, addressing Israel Kafka, "I hope to make you see the folly of your ways.
I suppose you know that you are quite mad and that the proper place for you is a lunatic asylum." The Wanderer laid his hand heavily upon Keyork's shoulder.
"Remember what I told you," he said sternly.

"He will be reasonable now.
Make your fellow understand that he is to let him go." "Better shut the door first," said Keyork, suiting the action to the word and then coming back.
"Make haste!" said the Wanderer with impatience.

"The man is ill, whether he is mad or not." Released at last from the Individual's iron grip, Israel Kafka staggered a little.

The Wanderer took him kindly by the arm, supporting his steps and leading him to a seat.