Splashes of rich vermilion crowned the treetops, leaves of gold, russet and faded green rustled on the ground.

The sun was gone behind the hills, the lake was tinted with salmon and dun, and Maurice (who honestly would have liked to run) was turning purple, not from atmospheric effect, but from the partly congealed state of his blood.

Already he was thinking that his adventure had turned out rather well.

It was but a simple task for a man of his imagination to construct a pretty romance, with a kingdom for a background.

A maid of honor, perhaps; no matter, he would find means for future communication.