The ruin of a great man, standing there, dressed still in the ornamental black armor of tradition, raiment made long ago obsolete by gunpowder, the last aristocrat, his dark countenance facing the dawn of a new republic, bowed to the circle of rebellion leaders, the folds of his cape rustling as he pulled it around himself.
“There would be no new world had you not slain the old,” said the lady, her grey eyes sorrowful.
He made no answer; would not lift his gaze to her.
“Master,” said her son, “is there not yet something you desire?”
“A good death.”
Tale Told 