"Can't say much for my Uncle's taste!--it's only fit for a ballet dancer!" He caught sight of himself in the glass and chuckled with a faint disgust. The batiste strained on his broad chest and beneath the folds his legs appeared, long and sinewy. He shivered. "Brr!--this _is_ the limit!" He drew it up above his knees and gingerly clambered on to his bed; snuggled down among the pillows, thankful for the eider down. The candle beside him was still alight and, before he leaned to blow it out, he glanced upward curiously at the dark draperies overhead. And then he started. For on the ceiling a shadow lay, huge, grotesque: the shadow of a mighty crown! A sudden memory assailed him. He looked closer. The curtains were drawn into a knot and held in place by a heavy ring of gilded wood, carved into a coronet. What was it the gipsy had said? "There's fortune coming over-seas ... and a castle, my fine gentleman..." Again he heard the husky voice crooning above his outstretched hand. And he stared at the ceiling, his eyes wide. For there it hung ... his "golden crown!" CHAPTER XVI When he awoke it was ten o'clock. A shaft of sunshine from under the blind fell across his vast bed and he rubbed his eyes, sleepy, bewildered, wondering where on earth he could be? Then he remembered, felt for his watch, throwing back the heavy clothes, and caught his knees in the frail night-shirt. The batiste ripped as he slid to the floor. The icy cold of the marble roused him, effectually banishing further sleep. He pattered across toward the light for the first glimpse of the world outside. Here he was foiled at the start. For the deep windows were set high, the opening far above his head, dating from those warlike times when the solid walls were a shelter from missiles. He dragged a heavy gilded chair underneath and mounting upon it, drew the faded curtains aside and peered forth eagerly. But his room faced the court-yard. He could only see the opposite wing of the palace dark against the sky, rugged and gray, with a turreted roof, a picture of mediaeval strength. A cloud of pigeons swirled up, flashing their myriad silver wings, as a servant passed along the gallery, with its twisted columns of carved marble. Beneath he caught a glimpse of the fountain and against the dazzling sapphire sky, like a lily on a slender stem, a single tower rose above the walls, in faded brick with a pointed belfry, white as snow, and an iron cross. Dissatisfied, he returned to bed and, conscious of his appetite, rang the bell by his side, his teeth chattering with the cold. Beppo answered to the summons, his old face wreathed in smiles, voluble and bearing a tray with hot chocolate and rolls. In vain McTaggart tried to gather the gist of the old man's talk. One word stood out plain, recurrent, with a questioning, anxious note.