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290
Zuleika Dobson; Or, An Oxford Love Story
·
Sir Max Beerbohm
113
“Go
right
ahead,
Duke,”
said
Mr.
Oover.
“I’ll
re-ply
when
my
turn
comes.”
“And
not
utterly
demolish
me,
I
hope,”
said
the
Duke.
His
was
the
Oxford
manner.
“Gentlemen,”
he
continued,
“is
it
possible
that
Britannia
would
have
thrown
her
helmet
in
the
air,
shrieking
‘Slavery
for
ever’?
You,
gentlemen,
seem
to
think
slavery
a
pleasant
and
an
honourable
state.
You
have
less
experience
of
it
than
I.
I
have
been
enslaved
to
Miss
Dobson
since
yesterday
evening;
you,
only
since
this
afternoon;
I,
at
close
quarters;
you,
at
a
respectful
distance.
Your
fetters
have
not
galled
you
yet.
MY
wrists,
MY
ankles,
are
excoriated.
The
iron
has
entered
into
my
soul.
I
droop.
I
stumble.
Blood
flows
from
me.
I
quiver
and
curse.
I
writhe.
The
sun
mocks
me.
The
moon
titters
in
my
face.
I
can
stand
it
no
longer.
I
will
no
more
of
it.
Tomorrow
I
die.”
The
flushed
faces
of
the
diners
grew
gradually
pale.
Their
eyes
lost
lustre.
Their
tongues
clove
to
the
roofs
of
their
mouths.
At
length,
almost
inaudibly,
The
MacQuern
asked
“Do
you
mean
you
are
going
to
commit
suicide?”
“Yes,”
said
the
Duke,
“if
you
choose
to
put
it
in
that
way.
Yes.
And
it
is
only
by
a
chance
that
I
did
not
commit
suicide
this
afternoon.”
“You--don’t--say,”
gasped
Mr.
Oover.
“I
do
indeed,”
said
the
Duke.
“And
I
ask
you
all
to
weigh
well
my
message.”
“But--but
does
Miss
Dobson
know?”
asked
Sir
John.
“Oh
yes,”
was
the
reply.
“Indeed,
it
was
she
who
persuaded
me
not
to
die
till
to-morrow.”
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