A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthurs Court by Mark Twain Chapter 2 Page 5

He said they were.

“And this isn’t an asylum? I mean, it isn’t a place where they cure crazy people?”

He said it wasn’t.

“Well, then,” I said, “either I am a lunatic, or something just as awful has happened.

Now tell me, honest and true, where am I?”

“In King Arthur’s Court.”

I waited a minute, to let that idea shudder its way home, and then said:

“And according to your notions, what year is it now?”

“528 — nineteenth of June.”

I felt a mournful sinking at the heart, and muttered: