There he has lived ever since, growing older and sinking lower, often near fortune but always missing it, a slave to bad habits, weak and dissolute if you like, but ever keeping up his voluntary sacrifice, ever with that unconquerable longing for one last glimpse of his own country and his own people.

I saw him, not many months ago, still there, still with his eyes turned seawards and with the same wistful droop of the head.

Somehow I can't help thinking that that old man was also a hero." The tinkling of glasses and the sort murmuring of whispered conversation had ceased during Francis' story.

Every one was a little affected--the soft throbbing of the violins upon the balcony was almost a relief.

Then there was a little murmur of sympathetic remarks--but amongst it all Trent sat at the head of the table with white, set face but with red fire before his eyes.