Brand awoke from a hideous nightmare, sat up on a rude horsehair couch, and held his head with both hands. He was conscious of a sense of nausea, burning temples, and a general indisposition to take any interest in his surroundings. He sank back upon his pillow.
“Oh, rot,” he murmured. “Go away, please.”
There was a short silence, then footsteps, and the newcomer bent over the sofa.
“Drink this.”
The invitation was alluring. Brand’s throat was like a limekiln. He sat up and took the proffered tumbler into his hands. The liquid was cold and sparkling—almost magical in its effects. He drained it to the last drop, and then looked curiously about him.
“Where the mischief am I?” he asked; “and who are you?”
The newcomer stood in the light from the window. He was a short and thick-set man, with iron-grey hair and black moustache slightly upturned. He had a pallid skin and keen grey eyes. His manner was at once grave and conciliatory.
“Your memory, Prince,” he remarked, “is scarcely so good as mine. I have had the pleasure of seeing you but once before, yet I think that I should have recognized you anywhere.”
“Oh, would you!” Brand remarked, beneath his breath.