It is something for a rascal to have evolved the Code Napoleon.

What a queer satisfaction it must be, even at this late day, nearly a hundred years removed, to any Englishman, standing above this crypt, to recollect that upon English soil the Great Shadow had never set his iron heel! Near to Fitzgerald stood an elderly man and a girl.

The old fellow was a fine type of manhood; perhaps in the sixties, white-haired, and the ruddy enamel on his cheeks spoke eloquently of sea changes and many angles of the sun.

There was a button in the lapel of his coat, and from this Fitzgerald assumed that he was a naval officer, probably retired.
The girl rested upon the railing, her hands folded, and dreamily her gaze wandered from trophy to trophy; from the sarcophagus to the encircling faces, from one window to another, and again to the porphyry beneath.

And Fitzgerald's gaze wandered, too.