That bed, I remember, was a rich and splendid thing, made of some black wood inlaid with scrolls of gold, and having hung about it curtains of white net embroidered with golden stars, such as Maqueda wore upon her official veil.
There upon the scented pillows and silken coverlet we set our burden down, the work-worn hands clasped upon the breast in an attitude of prayer, and one by one bid our farewell to this faithful and upright man, whose face, as it chanced, we were never to see again, except in the glass of memory.

Well, he had died as he had lived and would have wished to die--doing his duty and in war.

And so we left him.

Peace be to his honoured spirit! In the blood-stained ante-room, while I dressed and stitched up the Professor's wounds, a sword-cut on the head, an arrow-graze along the face, and a spear-prick in the thigh, none of them happily at all deep or dangerous, we held a brief council.
"Friends," said Maqueda, who was leaning on her lover's arm, "it is not safe that we should stop here.

My uncle's plot has failed for the moment, but it was only a small and secret thing.