This very pride in keeping his word was that he was keeping it to miscreants.

It was his last triumph over these lunatics to go down into their dark room and die for something that they could not even understand.

The barrel-organ seemed to give the marching tune with the energy and the mingled noises of a whole orchestra; and he could hear deep and rolling, under all the trumpets of the pride of life, the drums of the pride of death.
The conspirators were already filing through the open window and into the rooms behind.

Syme went last, outwardly calm, but with all his brain and body throbbing with romantic rhythm.

The President led them down an irregular side stair, such as might be used by servants, and into a dim, cold, empty room, with a table and benches, like an abandoned boardroom.
When they were all in, he closed and locked the door.
The first to speak was Gogol, the irreconcilable, who seemed bursting with inarticulate grievance.
"Zso! Zso!" he cried, with an obscure excitement, his heavy Polish accent becoming almost impenetrable.