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290
Zuleika Dobson; Or, An Oxford Love Story
·
Sir Max Beerbohm
129
“And
you
are
sure
they
really
MEANT
it?”
she
asked
in
a
voice
that
trembled.
“I
fear
so.
But
they
were
over-excited.
They
will
recant
their
folly.
I
shall
force
them
to.”
“They
are
not
children.
You
yourself
have
just
been
calling
them
‘men.’
Why
should
they
obey
you?”
She
turned
at
sound
of
a
footstep,
and
saw
a
young
man
approaching.
He
wore
a
coat
like
the
Duke’s,
and
in
his
hand
he
dangled
a
handkerchief.
He
bowed
awkwardly,
and,
holding
out
the
handkerchief,
said
to
her
“I
beg
your
pardon,
but
I
think
you
dropped
this.
I
have
just
picked
it
up.”
Zuleika
looked
at
the
handkerchief,
which
was
obviously
a
man’s,
and
smilingly
shook
her
head.
“I
don’t
think
you
know
The
MacQuern,”
said
the
Duke,
with
sulky
grace.
“This,”
he
said
to
the
intruder,
“is
Miss
Dobson.”
“And
is
it
really
true,”
asked
Zuleika,
retaining
The
MacQuern’s
hand,
“that
you
want
to
die
for
me?”
Well,
the
Scots
are
a
self-seeking
and
a
resolute,
but
a
shy,
race;
swift
to
act,
when
swiftness
is
needed,
but
seldom
knowing
quite
what
to
say.
The
MacQuern,
with
native
reluctance
to
give
something
for
nothing,
had
determined
to
have
the
pleasure
of
knowing
the
young
lady
for
whom
he
was
to
lay
down
his
life;
and
this
purpose
he
had,
by
the
simple
stratagem
of
his
own
handkerchief,
achieved.
Nevertheless,
in
answer
to
Zuleika’s
question,
and
with
the
pressure
of
her
hand
to
inspire
him,
the
only
word
that
rose
to
his
lips
was
“Ay”
(which
may
be
roughly
translated
as
“Yes”).
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