essed at the scene in which her son was the principal
figure as the Christmas morning was breaking?

It is the close of a furious orgie; the Babel of cries, of fragments of
songs, of insane, meaningless laughter, is dying away, through the pure
exhaustion of the revelers; on the gay carpet and the rich damask are
pools of spilled liquors, heaps of shivered glass, and bouquets and
garlands that have ceased to be fragrant hours ago. All around, in
different attitudes--ignoble and helpless--are strewn the bodies of
those who have gone down early in the battle of the Bacchanals: they lie
in their ranks as they fell. One figure towers above the
rest--pre-eminent as Satan in the conclave of the ruined angels--the
guiltiest, because the most conscious of his own utter degradation. The
frequent draughts that have prostrated his companions have only brought
out two round scarlet spots in the pale bronze of his cheeks; his voice
retains still its deep, calm, almost solemn tone. Listen to it as he
raises to his lips an immense glass brimming-full of Burgundy: "One
toast more, and with funeral honors--'To the memory of those who have
fallen gloriously on the 24th of December.'"

Is it true that, six months ago, the soft, pure cheek of Constance
Brandon rested often on the broad breast that pillows now the disheveled
head of that wild-eyed, shrill-voiced Maenad? Draw the curtains closer
yet; shut out the dawn of the Nativity for very shame.

Mohun was breakfasting with Livingstone on a cold, gusty January
morning, that succeeded a night of heavy drinking and heavier play. The
colonel would see him through one of these readily enough, but if there
was even a single female face present he would retreat in disgust and
contempt unutterable. Guy had been hit so hard that it made him graver
than usual as he thought of it, though he was tolerably inured and
indifferent to evil fortune; so the conversation languished during the
meal. After it was over, Mohun rose to light a cigar, while his
companion took up a pile of letters and began to glance at them
listlessly. Suddenly the former dropped the match from his hand,
starting in irrepressible astonishment.

He had seen strong men die hard, mangled and shattered by sabre or
bullet, but he had never heard a sound so terribly significant of agony
as the dull, heavy groan that just then burst from Livingstone's lips.

In those few seconds his face had grown perfectly livid; his eyes were
r