CHAPTER 1.IV.Blessed is He That Believeth.
Bonaparte Blenkins sat on the side of the bed.

He had wonderfully revived since the day before, held his head high, talked in a full sonorous voice, and ate greedily of all the viands offered him.

At his side was a basin of soup, from which he took a deep draught now and again as he watched the fingers of the German, who sat on the mud floor mending the bottom of a chair.
Presently he looked out, where, in the afternoon sunshine, a few half-grown ostriches might be seen wandering listlessly about, and then he looked in again at the little whitewashed room, and at Lyndall, who sat in the doorway looking at a book.

Then he raised his chin and tried to adjust an imaginary shirt-collar.

Finding none, he smoothed the little grey fringe at the back of his head, and began: "You are a student of history, I perceive, my friend, from the study of these volumes that lie scattered about this apartment; this fact has been made evident to me." "Well--a little--perhaps--it may be," said the German meekly.
"Being a student of history then," said Bonaparte, raising himself loftily, "you will doubtless have heard of my great, of my celebrated kinsman, Napoleon Bonaparte ?" "Yes, yes," said the German, looking up.
"I, sir," said Bonaparte, "was born at this hour, on an April afternoon, three-and-fifty years ago.