In spite of his corduroy suit and his bulging linen hand bag, he had the same grand and heroic aspect as the figures by Rude in the Arc de Triomphe.

The "affinity" and the boy were trudging along the sidewalk so as to accompany him to the station.

For a moment he took his eyes from them to speak with a companion in the line, shaven and serious-looking, undoubtedly the priest whom he had met the day before.

Now they were talking confidentially, intimately, with that brotherliness which contact with death inspires in mankind.
The millionaire followed the carpenter with a look of respect, immeasurably increased since he had taken his part in this human avalanche.

And this respect had in it something of envy, the envy that springs from an uneasy conscience.
Whenever Don Marcelo passed a bad night, suffering from nightmare, a certain terrible thing--always the same--would torment his imagination.
Rarely did he dream of mortal peril to his family or self.