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 mediæval 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.