Sometimes the grinding of the chains was mixed with the dull noise of shot falling into the holds.

Such harmonies, such a spectacle, oppress the heart like fear, and dilate it like hope.

All this life speaks of death.

Athos had seated himself with his son, upon the moss, among the brambles of the promontory.

Around their heads passed and repassed large bats, carried along by the fearful whirl of their blind chase.