letter showed that he understood at last!

The evening before the burial she went with the Chevalier to the Cohue
Royale. As she looked at Philip's dead face bitterness and aching
compassion were quieted within her. The face was peaceful--strong.
There was on it no record of fret or despair. Its impassive dignity
seemed to say that all accounts had been settled, and in this finality
there was quiet; as though he had paid the price, as though the long
account against him in the markets of life was closed and cancelled,
and the debtor freed from obligation for ever. Poignant impulses in her
stilled, pity lost its wounding acuteness. She shed no tears, but at
last she stretched out her hand and let it rest upon his forehead for a
moment.

"Poor Philip!" she said.

Then she turned and slowly left the room, followed by the Chevalier, and
by the noiseless Dormy Jamais, who had crept in behind them. As Dormy
Jamais closed the door, he looked back to where the coffin lay, and in
the compassion of fools he repeated Guida's words:

"Poor Philip!" he said.

Now, during Philip's burial, Dormy Jamais sat upon the roof of the Cohue
Royale, as he had done on the day of the Battle of Jersey, looking down
on the funeral cortege and the crowd. He watched it all until the ruffle
of drums at the grave told that the body was being lowered--four ruffles
for an admiral.

As the people began to disperse and the church bell ceased tolling, Dormy