“My father calls this the 'Ideal Dawn of Day,'” whispered Bernardino. “See the faint golden halo near the horizon; that is where the sun is supposed to be.” “How is it done?” asked the Englishman. “Few of our people know. It is a secret held only by the king and half a dozen scientists. The whole thing, however, is operated by two men in a room in the dome of the palace. The musician is a young German who was becoming the wonder of the musical world when father induced him to come to us. I have met him. He says he has been thoroughly happy here. He lives on music. He showed me the instrument he used to play, a little thing he called a violin, and its tones could not reach beyond the limits of a small room. He laughs at it now and says the instrument that father gave him to play on has strings drawn from the centre of the earth to the stars of heaven.” The rose-light had spread over the horizon and climbed almost to the zenith, and with the dying booming and gentle clangor it began to fade till all was dark again. “Captain Tradmos ought to be here now,” continued the princess, glancing uneasily toward the stairway. “We may not have so good an opportunity as this.” Ten minutes went by. “Surely, something has gone wrong,” whispered Bernardino. “I have never seen the darkness last so long as this; besides, can't you hear the muttering of the people?” Thorndyke acknowledged that he did. He was about to add something else, but was prevented by a loud blast from the trumpet in the tower. Bernardino shrank from him and fell to trembling. “What is the matter?” he asked. “The trumpet!” she gasped, “something awful has happened!” A moment of profound silence, then the murmuring of the crowd rose sullenly like the moaning of a rising storm; a search-light flashed up in the gloom and swept its uncertain stream from point to point, but it died out. Another and another shone for an instant in different parts of the city, but they all failed. “Something awful has happened,” repeated Bernardino, as if to herself; “the lights will not burn!” “Had we not better go down?” asked Thorndyke anxiously, excited by her unusual perturbation. For answer she mutely drew him to the eastern parapet. Far away in the east there still lingered a faint hint of pink, but all over the whole landscape darkness rested. “See!” she exclaimed, pointing upward, “the clouds are thinning over the sun, and yet there is no light. What can be the matter?” At that juncture they heard soft steps on the roof and a voice calling: “Bernardino! Princess Bernardino!” “It is Tradmos,” she ejaculated gladly, then she called out softly: “Tradmos! Tradmos!” “Here!” the voice said, and a figure loomed up before them. It was the captain. He was panting violently, as if he had been running. “What is it?” she asked, clasping his arm. “The sun has gone out,” he announced. A groan escaped her lips and she swayed into Thorndyke's arms.