Thus encouraged and stimulated, and feeling himself growing gradually stronger and stronger in the estimation of 'the plain people' whose voice was more potent than all the Warwicks, his ambition painted the rainbow of glory in the sky, while his morbid melancholy supplied the clouds that were to overcast and obliterate it with the wrath and ruin of the tempest.

To him it was fate, and there was no escape or defense.

The presentiment never deserted him.

It was as clear, as perfect, as certain as any image conveyed by the senses.

He had now entertained it so long that it was as much a part of his nature as the consciousness of identity.