Morhange smiled.
"We might have spent the whole night smoking and drinking and not been in a worse state," he said. "Anyhow, that Eg-Anteouen with his hasheesh is a fine rascal."
"Ceghéir-ben-Cheikh," I corrected.
I rubbed my hand over my forehead.
"Where are we?"
"My dear boy," Morhange replied, "since I awakened from the extraordinary nightmare which is mixed up with the smoky cave and the lamp-lit stairway of the Arabian Nights, I have been going from surprise to surprise, from confusion to confusion. Just look around you."
I rubbed my eyes and stared. Then I seized my friend's hand.
"Morhange," I begged, "tell me if we are still dreaming."
We were in a round room, perhaps fifty feet in diameter, and of about the same height, lighted by a great window opening on a sky of intense blue.
Swallows flew back and forth, outside, giving quick, joyous cries.