AFTE R AN ABSENCE OF twenty-six years, Marco Polo and his father Nicolo and his uncle Maffeo returned from the spectacular court of Kublai Khan to their old home in Venice. Their clothes were coarse and tattered; the bundles that they carried were bound in Eastern cloths and their bronzed faces bore evidence of great hardships, long endurance, and suffering. They had almost forgotten their native tongue. Their aspect seemed foreign and their accent and entire manner bore thestrange stamp of the Tartar. During these twenty-six years Venice, too, had changed and 
the travellers had difficulty in finding their old residence. But here at last as they entered the courtyard they were back home. Back from the Deserts of Persia, back from the lofty steeps of Pamir, from mysterious Tibet, from the dazzling court of Kublai Khan, from China, Mongolia, Burma, Siam, Sumatra, Java; back from Ceylon, where Adam has his tomb, and back from India, the land of myth and marvels. But the dogs of Venice barked as the travellers knocked on the door of their old home.