stretching his world-worn bones under a dainty table to which real food
was being brought by--well, he was obliged to pinch himself again. From
the broad terrace after dinner he looked out into the streets of the
quaint, picture-book town with its mediæval simplicity and ruggedness
combined; his eyes tried to keep pace with the things that his fertile
brain was seeing beyond the glimmering lights and dancing window
panes--for the whole scene danced before him with a persistent unreality
that made him feel his own pulse in the fear that some sudden, insidious
fever had seized upon him.

If any one had told him, six months before, that there was such a land
as Graustark and that if he could but keep on travelling in a certain
direction he would come to it in time, he would have laughed that person
to scorn, no matter how precise a geographer he might have been.

Young Mr. King, notwithstanding his naturally reckless devotion to first
impressions, was a much wiser person than when he left his New York home
two years before. Roughing it in the wildest parts of the world had
taught him that eagerness is the enemy of common sense. Therefore he
curbed the thrilling impulse to fare forth in search of diversion on
this first night; he conquered himself and went to bed early--and to
sleep at once, if that may serve to assist you in getting an idea of
what time and circumstances had done for his character.

A certain hard-earned philosophy had convinced him long ago that
adventure is quite content to wait over from day to day, but that when a
man is tired and worn it isn't quite sensible to expect sleep to be put
off regardless. With a fine sense of sacrifice, therefore, he went to
bed, forsaking the desire to tread the dim streets of a city by night in
advance of a more cautious survey by daylight. He had come to know that