We returned to the lawns before the palace porch, and, with his lantern in his hand, the Prince signed to me to go in.  I was not a little curious to view that enchanted household of which I had read so often and with so much delight as a child.

In the banqueting-hall only the matted windows were visible in the lofty walls.  Prince Ennui held his lantern on high, and by its flame, and the faint light that flowed in from above, I could presently see, distinct in gloom, as many sleepers as even Night could desire.

Here they reclined just as sorcerous sleep had overtaken them.  But how dimmed, how fallen!  For Time that could not change the sleeper had changed with quiet skill all else.  Tarnished, dusty, withered, overtaken, yellowed, and confounded lay banquet and cloth-of-gold, flagon, cup, fine linen, table, and stool.  But in all the ruin, like buds of springtime in a bare wood, or jewels in ashes, slumbered youth and beauty and bravery and delight.

I lifted my eyes to the King.  The gold of his divinity was fallen, his splendour quenched; but life’s dark scrutiny from his face was gone.  He made no stir at our light, slumbered untreasoned on.  The lids of his Queen were lightlier sealed, only withheld beauty as a cloud the sky it hides.  His courtiers flattered more elusively, being sincerely mute, and only a little red dust was all the wine left.

I seemed to hear their laughter clearer now that the jest was forgotten, and to admire better the pomp, and the mirth, and the grace, and the vanity, now that time had so far travelled from this little tumult once their triumph.

In a kind of furtive bravado, I paced the length of the long, thronged tables.  Here sat a little prince that captivated me, dipping his fingers into his cup with a sidelong glance at his mother.  There a high officer, I know not how magnificent and urgent when awake, slumbered with eyes wide open above his discouraged moustaches.

Simply for vanity of being awake in such a sleepy company, I strutted conceitedly to and fro.  I bent deftly and pilfered a little cockled cherry from between the very fingertips of her whose heart was doubtless like its—­quite hard.  And the bright lips never said a word.  I sat down, rather clownishly I felt, beside an aged and simpering chancellor that once had seemed wise, but now seemed innocent, nibbling a biscuit crisp as scandal.  For after all the horn would sound.  Childhood had been quite sure of that—­needed not even the author’s testimony.  They were alert to rise, scattering all dust, victors over Time and outrageous Fortune.