"Brutus," said my father, "unburden Mr. Sims of his weapons. Lawton, a
breath of night air may relieve you. Let us go to the window and reflect
on the slip that may occur between the container and the nose. My son,
give Mr. Lawton your arm. Assist me to open the shutters. Now Mr. Lawton,
call to your men. Tell them they may go. Louder, louder, Mr. Lawton.
Surely your voice has more strength. My ears have been weary this long
time with its clamor."




V


Even today, as I pen these lines, the picture comes back with the same
intensity, but little mellowed or softened with the years. The gaunt old
room that had entertained so many guests, emptied of its last one, with
nothing but the faint chill that had come through the opened window to
remind one of their presence--the fitful light of the two candles that
had begun spluttering in the tall brass sticks--Brutus with quiet
adroitness clearing away the bottles and the dishes--and a sudden burst
of flame from the back log in the fireplace that made his shadow jump
unevenly over the opposite wall--and my father resting languidly in his
chair again, quite as though nothing had happened--I remember looking
about me and almost doubting that anything out of the ordinary had passed
in the last five minutes. I glanced narrowly at him, but there was
nothing in his manner to betray that he had not been sitting there for
the past hour in peaceful meditation. Was he thinking of the other nights
when the room was bright with silver and candles?