There was something of the adventurer in his blood and he had a vast belief in his own ultimate good luck.

Fortune might frown for awhile, but he knew that he was Fortune's favourite notwithstanding.

And very soon she would smile again.
But for Monck he had only the bitter hate of the conquered.

He cast a malevolent look upon him with eyes that were oddly narrowed--a measuring, speculative look that comprehended his strength and registered the infallibility thereof with loathing.

"I wonder what happened to the serpent," he said, "when the man and woman were thrust out of the garden." Monck had readjusted his disguise.