The grey was in the east when we arose and started for the coast. As we came out upon the esplanade, one was there before us—one whose devoted watch had not ceased the long night through. Her tall and regal figure was draped in sombre weeds. Her face was covered, her hands were clasped upon her breast, her whole attitude an embodiment of uttermost despair. Our faces, set toward home and happiness and love and life, were turned for one backward pitying glance, then faced our joy again. As we descended those shining slopes of verdure, which owned her Queen but yesterday, we left her in the grandeur of that solitary mountain top to mourn over him who, in erecting his citadel, had, all-unknowing, builded for himself, tyrant though he was, a splendid and a lasting sepulchre.