All dead! Ay, all dead!" He sank into a mournful silence; and Tavannes, after gazing at him awhile in rough pity, fell to his own meditations, which were gloomy enough.

The day was beginning to wane, and with the downward turn, though the sun still shone brightly through the southern windows, a shadow seemed to fall across his thoughts.

They no longer rioted in a turmoil of defiance as in the forenoon.

In its turn, sober reflection marshalled the past before his eyes.

The hopes of a life, the ambitions of a life, moved in sombre procession, and things done and things left undone, the sovereignty which Nostradamus had promised, the faces of men he had spared and of men he had not spared--and the face of one woman.
She would not now be his.