Three comrades lay stretched stiff and motionless on the floor.

Gory swords and daggers were strewn all over the atrium; the presses of costly wood had been torn open, their contents scattered across the room.

There was blood on the frescoes, blood on the marble feet of the magnificent Diomedes, which stood rigid in cold majesty on its pedestal, dominating the wreck below.
Agias with Fabia stood at the end of the atrium near the exit to the peristylium.

Demetrius, seemingly hardly breathed by his exertions, leaned on his captured long sword at his cousin's side.

The multitude, for an instant, as they saw the ruin and slaughter, drew back with a hush.