There was no danger of his ever being roused by any sound or touch not proceeding from herself.

The crash of thunder had no reverberation for his ears, the explosion of a cannon would not have penetrated into his lethargy.

She might touch him, move him, even speak to him, but unless she laid her hand upon his waxen forehead and bid him feel and hear, he would be as unconscious as the dead.

She returned to his side and gazed into his placid face.

Strange faculties were asleep in that ancient brain, and strange wisdom was stored there, gathered from many sources long ago, and treasured unconsciously by the memory to be recalled at her command.
The man had been a failure in his day, a scholar, a student, a searcher after great secrets, a wanderer in the labyrinths of higher thought.
He had been a failure and had starved, as failures must, in order that vulgar success may fatten and grow healthy.