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Zuleika Dobson; Or, An Oxford Love Story
·
Sir Max Beerbohm
122
“By
the
way,”
she
whispered,
“I
want
to
ask
one
little
favour
of
you.
Will
you,
please,
at
the
last
moment
to-morrow,
call
out
my
name
in
a
loud
voice,
so
that
every
one
around
can
hear?”
“Of
course
I
will.”
“So
that
no
one
shall
ever
be
able
to
say
it
wasn’t
for
me
that
you
died,
you
know.”
“May
I
use
simply
your
Christian
name?”
“Yes,
I
really
don’t
see
why
you
shouldn’t--at
such
a
moment.”
“Thank
you.”
His
face
glowed.
Thus
did
they
commune,
these
two,
radiant
without
and
within.
And
behind
them,
throughout
the
Hall,
the
undergraduates
craned
their
necks
for
a
glimpse.
The
Duke’s
piano
solo,
which
was
the
last
item
in
the
first
half
of
the
programme,
was
eagerly
awaited.
Already,
whispered
first
from
the
lips
of
Oover
and
the
others
who
had
come
on
from
the
Junta,
the
news
of
his
resolve
had
gone
from
ear
to
ear
among
the
men.
He,
for
his
part,
had
forgotten
the
scene
at
the
Junta,
the
baleful
effect
of
his
example.
For
him
the
Hall
was
a
cave
of
solitude--no
one
there
but
Zuleika
and
himself.
Yet
almost,
like
the
late
Mr.
John
Bright,
he
heard
in
the
air
the
beating
of
the
wings
of
the
Angel
of
Death.
Not
awful
wings;
little
wings
that
sprouted
from
the
shoulders
of
a
rosy
and
blindfold
child.
Love
and
Death--for
him
they
were
exquisitely
one.
And
it
seemed
to
him,
when
his
turn
came
to
play,
that
he
floated,
rather
than
walked,
to
the
dais.
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