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 p