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Zuleika Dobson; Or, An Oxford Love Story
·
Sir Max Beerbohm
115
There
was
a
long
silence.
The
Duke,
looking
around
at
the
bent
heads
and
drawn
mouths
of
his
auditors,
saw
that
his
words
had
gone
home.
It
was
Marraby
who
revealed
how
powerfully
home
they
had
gone.
“Dorset,”
he
said
huskily,
“I
shall
die
too.”
The
Duke
flung
up
his
hands,
staring
wildly.
“I
stand
in
with
that,”
said
Mr.
Oover.
“So
do
I!”
said
Lord
Sayes.
“And
I!”
said
Mr.
Trent-Garby;
“And
I!”
The
MacQuern.
The
Duke
found
voice.
“Are
you
mad?”
he
asked,
clutching
at
his
throat.
“Are
you
all
mad?”
“No,
Duke,”
said
Mr.
Oover.
“Or,
if
we
are,
you
have
no
right
to
be
at
large.
You
have
shown
us
the
way.
We--take
it.”
“Just
so,”
said
The
MacQuern,
stolidly.
“Listen,
you
fools,”
cried
the
Duke.
But
through
the
open
window
came
the
vibrant
stroke
of
some
clock.
He
wheeled
round,
plucked
out
his
watch--nine!--the
concert!--his
promise
not
to
be
late!--Zuleika!
All
other
thoughts
vanished.
In
an
instant
he
dodged
beneath
the
sash
of
the
window.
From
the
flower-box
he
sprang
to
the
road
beneath.
(The
facade
of
the
house
is
called,
to
this
day,
Dorset’s
Leap.)
Alighting
with
the
legerity
of
a
cat,
he
swerved
leftward
in
the
recoil,
and
was
off,
like
a
streak
of
mulberry-coloured
lightning,
down
the
High.
The
other
men
had
rushed
to
the
window,
fearing
the
worst.
“No,”
cried
Oover.
“That’s
all
right.
Saves
time!”
and
he
raised
himself
on
to
the
window-box.
It
splintered
under
his
weight.
He
leapt
heavily
but
well,
followed
by
some
uprooted
geraniums.
Squaring
his
shoulders,
he
threw
back
his
head,
and
doubled
down
the
slope.
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