The men for whom these thrones were reserved were men crowned with some extraordinary laurels.

But the central chair was empty.
Syme was on the left hand of it and the Secretary on the right.

The Secretary looked across the empty throne at Syme, and said, compressing his lips-- "We do not know yet that he is not dead in a field." Almost as Syme heard the words, he saw on the sea of human faces in front of him a frightful and beautiful alteration, as if heaven had opened behind his head.

But Sunday had only passed silently along the front like a shadow, and had sat in the central seat.

He was draped plainly, in a pure and terrible white, and his hair was like a silver flame on his forehead.
For a long time--it seemed for hours--that huge masquerade of mankind swayed and stamped in front of them to marching and exultant music.
Every couple dancing seemed a separate romance; it might be a fairy dancing with a pillar-box, or a peasant girl dancing with the moon; but in each case it was, somehow, as absurd as Alice in Wonderland, yet as grave and kind as a love story.