"The world and a woman by the sword; there is no other way." He had the spirit of his time.

The sword was its faith, its magic.

If two men loved a woman, the natural way to make happiness for all was to let the sword do its eager office.

For they had one of the least-believed and most unpopular of truths, that a woman's love is more a matter of mastery and possession than instinct, two men being of comparatively equal merit and sincerity.
His figure seemed to grow larger in the mist, and the grey haze gave his hair a frosty coating, so that age and youth seemed strangely mingled in him.

He stood motionless for a long time as the song went on: "Qui vive! Who saileth into the morn, Out of the wind of the dawn?
'Follow, oh, follow me on!' Calleth a distant horn.
He is here--he is there--he is gone, Tall seigneur of the dawn! Qui vive! Qui vive! in the dawn." Some one touched Iberville's arm.