For to the proud eyes of a man, looking eagle-wise at the far-off sun of a great ambition, the coming of Thanatos could seem neither as consolation nor as vengeance, but only as the crowning irony in the mockery and the futility of life.
The dawn grew into morning.
A day broke full of winds and of showers, with the dark masses of clouds tossed roughly hither and thither, and the bells of the steeples blown harshly out of time and tune, and the wet metal roofs glistening through a steam of rain.
The sleepers wakened of themselves or dreamed on as they might.
She had no memory of them.
She crouched in the gloom on his threshold, watching him.
He sank awhile into profound stupor, sitting there before his canvas, with his head dropped and his eyelids closed. Then suddenly a shudder ran through him; he awoke with a start, and shook off the lethargy which drugged him. He rose slowly to his feet, and looked at the open shutters, and saw that it was morning.
"Another day—another day!" he muttered, wearily; and he turned from the Barabbas.
Towards the form on his threshold he had never looked.
She sat without and waited.