He gave no outward evidence of it, but in his heart he realized more plainly than ever before that when these were gone there were no more.

And so, perhaps, his shudder was not altogether due to the cold.
Whatever his emotions, he steeled his heart, he made his preparations for the last try with fortune, the last card to be played, the last die to be thrown.

What would be the end of it?
What would be the result of that final desperate game?
The Emperor was a master player--could even his finesse and skill and talent and genius make up for the poor hand that had been dealt him because the pack had been so drawn upon that the good cards had been exhausted, used up, long since?
Did the Emperor realize that even he was not what he had been?
Did he comprehend that he was no longer the soldier, the man, of the past?
Did he realize that at last he had tried the patience of that fortune he had worshiped, beyond the limit; and that whatever favor might be vouchsafed him would only delay the end?
The boys might march and fight, the old guard might sustain its ancient fame, the genius of the Emperor might flash out in full effulgence once more--and it would make no difference.

The stars on their courses fought against Sisera.

The doom sentence was written.