“Wait，” he said solemnly， “till the clock strikes. I havewealth and power and knowledge above most men， butwhen the clock strikes I am afraid. Stay by me untilthen. This woman shall be yours. You have the word ofthe hereditary Prince of Valleluna. On the day of yourmarriage I will give you 100，000 and a palace on theHudson. But there must be no clocks in that palace—theymeasure our follies and limit our pleasures. Do you agreeto that？”
“Of course，” said the young man， cheerfully， “they’re anuisance， anyway—always ticking and striking and gettingyou late for dinner.”
He glanced again at the clock in the tower. The handsstood at three minutes to nine.
“I think，” said Prince Michael， “that I will sleep a little.
The day has been fatiguing.”He stretched himself upon a bench with the manner ofone who had slept thus before.
“You will find me in this park on any evening when theweather is suitable，” said the Prince， sleepily. “Come to mewhen your marriage day is set and I will give you a chequefor the money.”
“Thanks， Your Highness，” said the young man， seriously.
“It doesn’t look as if I would need that palace on theHudson， but I appreciate your offer， just the same.”
Prince Michael sank into deep slumber. His batteredhat rolled from the bench to the ground. The young manlifted it， placed it over the frowsy face and moved one ofthe grotesquely relaxed limbs into a more comfortableposition. “Poor devil！” he said， as he drew the tatteredclothes closer about the Prince’s breast.
Sonorous and startling came the stroke of 9 from theclock tower. The young man sighed again， turned his facefor one last look at the house of his relinquished hopes—and cried aloud profane words of holy rapture.
From the middle upper window blossomed in the duska waving， snowy， fluttering， wonderful， divine emblem offorgiveness and promised joy.
By came a citizen， rotund， comfortable， home-hurrying，unknowing of the delights of waving silken scarfs on theborders of dimly-lit parks.
“Will you oblige me with the time， sir？” asked the youngman； and the citizen， shrewdly conjecturing his watch tobe safe， dragged it out and announced：“Twenty-nine and a half minutes past eight， sir.”
And then， from habit， he glanced at the clock in thetower， and made further oration.
“By George！ that clock’s half an hour fast！ First time inten years I’ve known it to be off. This watch of mine nevervaries a—”
But the citizen was talking to vacancy. He turned andsaw his hearer， a fast receding black shadow， flying in thedirection of a house with three lighted upper windows.
And in the morning came along two policemen ontheir way to the beats they owned. The park was desertedsave for one dilapidated figure that sprawled， asleep， on abench. They stopped and gazed upon it.
“It’s Dopy Mike，” said one. “He hits the pipe everynight. Park bum for twenty years. On his last legs， I guess.”
The other policeman stooped and looked at somethingcrumpled and crisp in the hand of the sleeper.
“Gee！” he remarked. “He’s doped out a fifty-dollar bill，anyway. Wish I knew the brand of hop that he smokes.”
And then “Rap， rap， rap！” went the club of realismagainst the shoe soles of Prince Michael， of the Electorateof Valleluna.
