Essential Science Fiction Novels - Volume 6. Richard Jefferies

of musical instruments.

      Then they knew that they were entering a building of some sort, for they heard a key turn in a lock and the humming sound in the distance was cut off. They felt a soft carpet under their feet, and the feet of their guards no longer clinked on the stones.

      When the bandages were removed they found themselves in a sumptuous chamber, alone with the captain. The brilliant light from a quaintly-shaped candelabrum, in the centre of the chamber, dazzled them, but in a few minutes their eyes had become accustomed to it.

      Tradmos seemed to be enjoying the looks of astonishment on their faces as they glanced at the different objects in the room.

      “It is night,” he said smilingly. “You need rest after your voyage. Lie down on the beds and sleep. To-morrow you will be conducted to the palace of the king.”

      With a bow he withdrew, and they heard a massive bolt slide into the socket of a door hidden behind a curtain. The two men gazed at each other without speaking, for a moment, and then they began to inspect the room.

      In alcoves half-veiled with silken curtains stood statues in gold and bronze. The walls and ceilings were decorated with pictures unlike any they had ever seen. Before one, the picture of an angel flying through a dark, star-filled sky, they both stood enchanted.

      “What is it?” asked Thorndyke, finding voice finally. “It is not done with brush or pencil; the features seem alive and, by Jove, you can actually see it breathe. Don't you see the clouds gliding by, and the wings moving?”

      “It is light—it is formed by light!” declared the other enthusiastically, and he ran to the wall, about six feet from the picture, and put his hand on a square metal box screwed to the wall.

      “I have it,” he said quickly, “come here!”

      The Englishman advanced curiously and examined the box.

      “Don't you see that tiny speck of light in the side towards the picture? Well, the view is thrown from this box on the wall, and it is the motion of the powerful light that gives apparent life to the angel. It is wonderful.”

      In a commodious alcove, in a glow of pink light from above, was a life-sized group of musicians—statues in colored metal of a Spanish girl playing a mandora, an Italian with a slender calascione, a Russian playing his jorbon, and an African playing a banjo. Luxurious couches hung by spiral springs from the ceiling to a convenient height from the floor, and here and there lay rugs of rare beauty and great ottomans of artistic designs and colors.

      “We ought to go to bed,” proposed Thorndyke; “we shall have plenty of time to see this Aladdin's land before we get away from it.”

      There were two large downy beds on quaintly wrought bedsteads of brass, but the two captives decided to sleep together.

      Thorndyke was the first to awaken. The lights in the candelabrum were out, but a gray light came in at the top and bottom of the window. He rose and drew the heavy curtain of one of the windows aside. He shrank back in astonishment.

      III

      “What is it, Thorndyke? What are you looking at?” And the American slowly left the bed and approached his friend.

      Thorndyke only held the curtain further back and watched Johnston's face as he looked through the wide plate-glass window.

      “My gracious!” ejaculated the latter as he drew nearer. It was a wondrous scene. The building in which they were imprisoned stood on a gentle hill clad in luxuriant, smoothly-cut grass and ornamented with beautiful flowers and plants; and below lay a splendid city—a city built on undulating ground with innumerable grand structures of white marble, with turrets, domes and pinnacles of gold. Wide streets paved in polished stone and bordered with lush-green grass interspersed with statues and beds and mounds of strange plants and flowers stretched away in front of them till they were lost in the dim, misty distance. Parks filled with pavilions, pleasure-lakes, fountains and tortuous drives and walks, dotted the landscape in all directions.

      Thorndyke's breath had clouded the glass of the window, and he rubbed it with his handkerchief. As he did so the sash slowly, and without a particle of sound, slid to one side, disclosing a narrow balcony outside. It had a graceful balustrade, made of carved red-and-white mottled marble, and on the end of the balcony facing the city sat a great gold and silver jug, ten feet high, of rare design. The spout was formed by the body of a dragon with wings extended; the handle was a serpent with the extremity of its tail coiled around the neck of the jug.

      The air that came in at the window was fresh and dewy, and laden with the most entrancing odors. Thorndyke led the way out, treading very gently at first. Johnston followed him, too much surprised to make any comment. From this position, their view to the left round the corner of the building was widened, and new wonders appeared on every hand.

      Over the polished stone pavements strange vehicles ran noiselessly, as if the wheels had cushioned tires, and the streets were crowded with an active, strangely-clad populace.

      “Look at that!” exclaimed the American, and from a street corner they saw a queer-looking machine, carrying half-a-dozen passengers, rise like a bird with wings outspread and fly away toward the east. They watched it till it disappeared in the distance.

      “We are indeed in wonderland,” said the Englishman; “I can't make head nor tail of it. We were on an isolated island, the Lord only knows where, and have suddenly been transported to a new world!”

      “I can't feel at all as if we were in the world we were born in,” returned Johnston. “I feel strange.”

      “The wine,” suggested the Englishman, “you know it did wonders for us in that subwater thing.”

      “No; the wine has nothing to do with it. My head never was clearer. The very atmosphere is peculiar. The air is invigorating, and I can't get enough of it.”

      “That is exactly the way I feel,” was Thorndyke's answer.

      “Look at the sunlight,” went on Johnston; “it is gray like our dawn, but see how transparent it is. You can look through it for miles and miles. It is becoming pink in the east, the sun will soon be up, and I am curious to see it.”

      “It must be up now, but we cannot see it for the hills and buildings. My goodness, see that!” and the Englishman pointed to the east. A flood of delicate pink light was now pouring into the vast body of gray and was slowly driving the more sombre color toward the west. The line of separation was marked—so marked, indeed, that it seemed a vast, rose-colored billow rolling, widening and sweeping onward like a swell of the ocean shoreward. On it came rapidly, till the whole landscape was magically changed. The flowers, the trees, the grass, the waters of the lakes, the white buildings, the costumes of the people in the streets, even the sky, changed in aspect. The white clouds looked like fire-lit smoke, and far toward the west rolled the long line of pink still struggling with the gray and driving it back.

      The sun now came into sight, a great bleeding ball of fire slowly rising above the gilded roofs in the distance.

      “By Jove, look at our shadows!” exclaimed Johnston, and both men gazed at the balcony floor in amazement; their shadows were as clearly defined and black as silhouettes. “How do you account for that?” continued the American, “I am firmly convinced that this sun is not the orb that shines over my native land.”

      Thorndyke laughed, but his laugh was forced. “How absurd! and yet—” He extended his hand over the balustrade into the rosy glow, and without concluding his remark held it back into the shadow of the window-casement. “By Jove!” he exclaimed; “there is not a particle of warmth in it. It is exactly the same temperature in the shade as in the light.” He moved back against the wall. “No; there is no difference; the blamed thing doesn't give out any warmth.”

      Johnston's hands were extended in the light. “I believe you are right,” he declared in awe, “something is wrong.”

      At