Then he laughed too, a sedate, musical chuckle, and said something incomprehensible, pointing at the same time to a cut upon my finger that was bleeding a little.

I shook my head, meaning thereby that it was nothing, but the stranger with graceful solicitude took my hand, and, after examining the hurt, deliberately tore a strip of cloth from a bright yellow toga-like garment he was wearing and bound the place up with a woman's tenderness.
Meanwhile, as he ministered, there was time to look about me.

Where was I?
It was not the Broadway; it was not Staten Island on a Saturday afternoon.

The night was just over, and the sun on the point of rising.

Yet it was still shadowy all about, the air being marvellously tepid and pleasant to the senses.