"Rome?
You rave, old man! Why, I was not born in those days.

My father even was a boy! It was in '27 you sacked it--five-and-forty years ago!" The old man passed his hands over his heated face, and, as a man roused suddenly from sleep looks, he looked round the room.

The light died out of his eyes--as a light blown out in a room; his form seemed to shrink, even while the others gazed at him, and he sat down.
"No, I remember," he muttered slowly.

"It was Prince Philibert of Chalons, my lord of Orange." "Dead these forty years!" "Ay, dead these forty years! All dead!" the old man whispered, gazing at his gnarled hand, and opening and shutting it by turns.

"And I grow childish! 'Tis time, high time, I followed them! It trembles now; but have no fear, my lord, this hand will not tremble then.