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In the ancestral presence of the dead Sits a lone power; a veil upon the head, Stern with the terror of an unseen dread.

It sitteth cold, immutable, and still, Girt with eternal consciousness of ill, And strong and silent as its own dark will.

We are the victims of its iron rule, The warm and beating human heart its tool, And man immortal, godlike, but its fool.

church clock struck two, an example followed, during the next quarter of an hour, by half a dozen timepieces, as Courtenaye and his companion entered the room where Sir George Kingston, half dressed, half lounged, the morning away. The walls were hung with