He took no account of the fact that the wolf gorged is the wolf weakened.

As his plans grew his methods became more unscrupulous and his scorn for forms of law increased.

One day he sat in his mother’s house showing her, with the enthusiastic glee of a child for new toys, several freshly acquired miniatures of the First Napoleon.

Mrs. Burton turned one of the priceless trinkets over in her hand and gazed at it wonderingly.  It was a small thing, wrought on ivory by Jean Baptiste Jacques Augustin and framed in pearls.  She thought she had seen more flattering portrayals of the round head which stared out from the jewelled circlet.

“I suppose,” she said with such a sigh as mothers utter when they fail to understand with full sympathy the enthusiasms of their children, “I ought to rave over this.  From your eyes I realize that it is treasure-trove and yet to me it is meaningless.  Of course,” she naively added, “the pearls are very pretty.”

Tenderly, Hamilton stooped and kissed her forehead, then he took the miniature from her hand and stood looking at the painted face.  He stood straight and lithe, and he spoke slowly: 

“Sometimes I wonder if the belief in reincarnation is not the truest faith, mother.  Sometimes, I seem to look back on the career of this man as on something in an unforgotten past.  To me it is all more vital than history; more real than chronicle.  It is memory!” He paused and his eyes were altogether grave.

“As I reflect on Austerlitz, I find myself saying, ‘I did well there,’ and for Waterloo and St. Helena my chagrin and misery are personal.  Why should I doubt that once my own spirit dwelt in another body—­in his, perhaps?” His voice mounted, and he continued, “But this time the spirit must go further.  It must never taste defeat.  Its triumph must grow to the end, and surrender its scepter and baton only to Death.”

The mother looked up at the exalted fantasy which glowed in her son’s face and her head shook uncomprehendingly.  “It seems only yesterday,” she said “that I held you, a soft little morsel of pink flesh, close to my breast.  I dreamed of no great triumphs for you.  Only goodness and health.  Perhaps it was as well that way.  I sometimes wonder if any woman could face her responsibilities if she knew she was giving birth to one of the masters of the world.  My only vanity was to name you Hamilton.  And Paul I named for the great apostle.”  She laughed very low—­and her son knelt beside her chair and drew her into his embrace.

CHAPTER XVIII

Paul, who was named for the apostle, and Loraine Haswell had drifted further into midstream than either realized.  Less keen observers than Norvil Thayre now spoke of their frequent meetings.  Club conversation intimated that not only financial stress was responsible for the silencing of Len Haswell’s jovial laughter.