“At what hour do we start?” Brand asked.
Domiloff hesitated.
“It depends,” he said, slowly, “upon circumstances.”
Brand sat down and poured himself out a glass of wine.
“That means when I have signed the treaty, I suppose?”
Domiloff was already at the door. He affected not to hear.
“If your Highness will ring when you are prepared to give me an audience,” he said, “I shall be entirely at your service.”
Brand ate and drank, threw himself into an easy-chair, and lit a cigarette. Presently he tried the handle of the door. It was locked. He moved to the window and looked out. Below was an old courtyard enclosed within high grey walls and iron gates, through which he could catch a glimpse of the town. The wide, open space, half square, half market-place, was crowded with people in strange costume, having baskets of fruit and vegetables, before which they squatted and called out their wares. Beyond were houses with vivid, whitewashed fronts, red roofs, and narrow windows. At the gates were stationed two soldiers in red tunics and broad white trousers, very baggy, and tucked into their boots. They were bareheaded, and they smoked long cigarettes, chattering meanwhile to one another and the people around in a dialect which to Brand was like a nightmare. He watched them for a while, and laughed softly to himself. This was an adventure after his own heart.