breeze to soothingly blow, and the sea-gulls to drowsily flap their limber wings. I slept some time, for when, thoroughly refreshed, I blinked lazily to waking, all I heard was:
"And so I married the Princess!"
I was sorry to have lost the story, for it was, no doubt, just the sort I like. But I did not dare to confess my doze, so I said as brightly as I could:
"And lived happily ever after!"
Mudjahoy moved uneasily, and replied:
"Well, hardly. Of course I expected to; but then, you know that real life is often different from what the kindly story-tellers would have it. No; I can't say we lived happily ever after. Nor was it Dorema's fault. I have met a number of princesses, and I really cannot see that my Dorema has any superiors."
"How then do you explain it?" I asked. (Of course I had to be a little cautious in my questions, for fear of bringing up references to points I had missed during my nap.)
"I 'll tell you the story, if you have not heard too much already?"
"Oh, no!" I replied. "Not at all too much. Pray go on."
So Mudjahoy told me the second part. I have always regretted that I heard only this sequel. I tell it in his words:
You can see that after having accomplished such a series of tasks I was sure to be respected and envied at court. We passed the honeymoon in the mountains, and as we took but a small retinue, several thousands, Dorema often spoke of the strange solitude as a delicious rest after the bustle and turmoil of court life.
For my part, even in my happiness with Dorema,—she was really charming!—I found the retinue something of a bore. At home, I had never been attended by more than three or four servants, while here I had to find employment and use for a hundred
