Crystal was silent. There was something great and majestic, something that compelled admiration and respect in this tragic impotence, this failure brought about by uncontrolled passion at the very hour when success--perhaps--might yet have changed the whole destinies of the world. De Marmont lying here, helpless to aid his Emperor--through the furious and jealous attack of a rival--was at this moment more worthy of a good woman's regard than he had been in the flush of his success and of his arrogance, for his one thought was of the Emperor and what he could no longer do for him. He tried to move and could not: "The Emperor's orders!" came at times with pathetic persistence from his lips, and Crystal--woman-like--tried to soothe and comfort him in his failure, even though his triumph would only have aroused her scorn. And time sped on. From the towers of the cathedral came booming the hour of nine. The shadows in the narrow street were long and dark, only a pale thin reflex of the cold light of the moon struck into the open doorway and the white corridor, and detached de Marmont's pale face from the surrounding gloom. The Emperor's orders and because of a woman these could now no longer be obeyed. If de Marmont had not seen Crystal on the cathedral steps, if he had not followed her--if he had not allowed his passion and arrogant self-will to blind him to time and to surroundings--who knows? but the whole map of Europe might yet have been changed. A fortune in London was awaiting a gambler who chose to stake everything on a last throw--a fortune wherewith the greatest adventurer the world has ever known might yet have reconstituted an army and reconquered an Empire--and he who might have won that fortune was lying in the narrow corridor of an humble lodging house--with a broken leg--helpless and eating out his heart now with vain regret. Why? Because of a girl with fair curls and blue eyes--just a woman--young and desirable--another tiny pawn in the hands of the Great Master of this world's game. The rain in the morning at Waterloo--Blücher's arrival or Grouchy's--a man's selfish passion for a woman who cared nothing for him--who shall dare to say that these tiny, trivial incidents changed the destinies of the world? Think on it, O ye materialists! ye worshippers of Chance! Is it indeed the infinitesimal doings of pigmies that bring about the great upheavals of the earth? Do ye not rather see God's will in that fall of rain? God's breath in those dying heroes who fell on Mont Saint Jean? do ye not recognise that it was God's finger that pointed the way to Blücher and stretched de Marmont down helpless on the ground? V