now dying down low, again reaching such a height that it pained the ears. Belated flying-machines darted across the sky here and there, like storm-frightened birds, but they soon settled to earth. Every eye was on the cloud which was now gashed with dazzling, vivid, electric flashes. Thorndyke looked over the vast roof. He was alone. He walked to the western parapet to get a broader view.
The clouds had increased till almost a third of the heavens were obscured by the madly whirling blackness. There was a rumble in the cloud, or beyond it, like thunder, and yet it was not, unless thunder can be attuned, for the sound was like the music of a great orchestra magnified a thousand-fold. The grand harmony died down. There was a blinding flash of electricity in the clouds, and the Englishman involuntarily covered his eyes with his hands. When he looked again the blackness was covering the sun. For a moment its disk showed blood-red through the fringe of the cloud and then disappeared. Total darkness fell on everything.
The silence was profound. The very air seemed stagnant.
Then the wind overhead, by some unseen force, was lashed into fury, and all the sky was filled with whirlpools of deeper blackness. Suddenly there was a flash of soft golden light; this was followed by streams of pink, of blue and of purple till the whole heavens were hung with banners, flags, and rain-bows of flame. Again darkness fell, and it seemed all the deeper after the gorgeous scene which had preceded it. Thorndyke strained his sight to detect something moving below, but nothing could be seen, and no sound came up from the motionless crowds.
Behind him he heard a soft footstep on the stone tiling. It drew nearer. A hand was being carefully slid along the parapet. The hand reached him and touched his arm.
It was the princess. “Ah, I have at last found you,” she whispered, “I saw you in the lightning, but lost you again.”
He put his arm round her and drew her into his embrace. He tried to speak, but uttered only an inarticulate sound.
“I could not possibly come earlier,” she apologized, nestling against him so closely that he could feel the quick and excited beating of her heart. “My father kept me with him till only a moment ago. Captain Tradmos will be here soon.”
“When do we start?” he asked.
“That is the trouble,” she replied. “We had counted on getting away in the darkness, before the display of lightning, but there is more danger now. If our flying-machine were noticed the search-lights would be turned on us and we would be discovered at once.”
“But even if we get safely away in the darkness when could we return?”
“Oh, that would be easy,” she replied. “As soon as the fete is over, commerce will be resumed and the air will be filled with air-ships that have been delayed in their regular business, and, in the disguises which I have for us both, we could come back without rousing suspicion. We could alight in Winter Park and return home later.”
“What is Winter Park?”
“You have not seen it? You must do so; it is one of the wonders of Alpha. It is a vast park enclosed with high walls and covered with a roof of glass. Inside the snow falls, and we have sleighing and coasting and lakes of ice for skating. It was an invention of the king. The snowstorms there are beautiful.”
Thorndyke's reply was drowned in a harmonious explosion like that of tuned cannon; this was followed by the chimes of great bells which seemed to swing back and forth miles overhead.
“Listen!” whispered Bernardino, “father calls it 'musical thunder,' and he declares that it is produced in no other country but this.”
“It is not; he is right.” And the heart of the Englishman was stirred by deep emotion. He had never dreamed that anything could so completely chain his fancy and elevate his imagination as what he heard. The musical clangor died down. The strange harmony grew more entrancing as it softened. Then the whole eastern sky began to flush with rosy, shimmering light.
“My father calls this the 'Ideal Dawn of Day,'” whispered Bernardino. “See the faint golden halo near the horizon; that is where the sun is supposed to be.”
“How is it done?” asked the Englishman.
“Few of our people know. It is a secret held only by the king and half a dozen scientists. The whole thing, however, is operated by two men in a room in the dome of the palace. The musician is a young German who was becoming the wonder of the musical world when father induced him to come to us. I have met him. He says he has been thoroughly happy here. He lives on music. He showed me the instrument he used to play, a little thing he called a violin, and its tones could not reach beyond the limits of a small room. He laughs at it now and says the instrument that father gave him to play on has strings drawn from the centre of the earth to the stars of heaven.”
The rose-light had spread over the horizon and climbed almost to the zenith, and with the dying booming and gentle clangor it began to fade till all was dark again.
“Captain Tradmos ought to be here now,” continued the princess, glancing uneasily toward the stairway. “We may not have so good an opportunity as this.”
Ten minutes went by.
“Surely, something has gone wrong,” whispered Bernardino. “I have never seen the darkness last so long as this; besides, can't you hear the muttering of the people?”
Thorndyke acknowledged that he did. He was about to add something else, but was prevented by a loud blast from the trumpet in the tower.
Bernardino shrank from him and fell to trembling.
“What is the matter?” he asked. “The trumpet!” she gasped, “something awful has happened!”
A moment of profound silence, then the murmuring of the crowd rose sullenly like the moaning of a rising storm; a search-light flashed up in the gloom and swept its uncertain stream from point to point, but it died out. Another and another shone for an instant in different parts of the city, but they all failed.
“Something awful has happened,” repeated Bernardino, as if to herself; “the lights will not burn!”
“Had we not better go down?” asked Thorndyke anxiously, excited by her unusual perturbation.
For answer she mutely drew him to the eastern parapet. Far away in the east there still lingered a faint hint of pink, but all over the whole landscape darkness rested.
“See!” she exclaimed, pointing upward, “the clouds are thinning over the sun, and yet there is no light. What can be the matter?”
At that juncture they heard soft steps on the roof and a voice calling:
“Bernardino! Princess Bernardino!”
“It is Tradmos,” she ejaculated gladly, then she called out softly:
“Tradmos! Tradmos!”
“Here!” the voice said, and a figure loomed up before them. It was the captain. He was panting violently, as if he had been running.
“What is it?” she asked, clasping his arm.
“The sun has gone out,” he announced.
A groan
