32 Inert he lay, a strange and pallid serenity upon his brow; right through his chest the deadly bullet had passed; the steaming blood flowed now where moments earlier inspiration, aversion, love and expectation had throbbed, where blood had boiled and seethed, where life had shimmered, spirit breathed; but here, as in a house, unlightened and bare, where all is empty, chill, this heart remains forever still, the shutters closed, the windows whitened with chalk. The chatelaine has left, all traces gone, the place bereft.
