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Zuleika Dobson; Or, An Oxford Love Story
·
Sir Max Beerbohm
170
Artless
and
crude
in
expression,
very
boyish,
it
seemed
now
to
its
author.
Yet,
in
its
simple
wistfulness,
it
had
quality:
it
rang
true.
The
Duke
wondered
whether,
with
all
that
he
had
since
mastered
in
the
great
art
of
English
prose,
he
had
not
lost
something,
too.
“Is
there
no
withstanding
him?”
To
think
that
the
boy
who
uttered
that
cry,
and
gave
back
so
brave
an
answer,
was
within
nine
years
to
go
seek
death
of
his
own
accord!
How
the
gods
must
be
laughing!
Yes,
the
exquisite
point
of
the
joke,
for
them,
was
that
he
CHOSE
to
die.
But--and,
as
the
thought
flashed
through
him,
he
started
like
a
man
shot--what
if
he
chose
not
to?
Stay,
surely
there
was
some
reason
why
he
MUST
die.
Else,
why
throughout
the
night
had
he
taken
his
doom
for
granted?...
Honour:
yes,
he
had
pledged
himself.
Better
death
than
dishonour.
Was
it,
though?
was
it?
Ah,
he,
who
had
come
so
near
to
death,
saw
dishonour
as
a
tiny
trifle.
Where
was
the
sting
of
it?
Not
he
would
be
ridiculous
to-morrow--to-day.
Every
one
would
acclaim
his
splendid
act
of
moral
courage.
She,
she,
the
hyena
woman,
would
be
the
fool.
No
one
would
have
thought
of
dying
for
her,
had
he
not
set
the
example.
Every
one
would
follow
his
new
example.
Yes,
he
would
save
Oxford
yet.
That
was
his
duty.
Duty
and
darling
vengeance!
And
life--life!
It
was
full
dawn
now.
Gone
was
that
faint,
monotonous
sound
which
had
punctuated
in
his
soul
the
horrors
of
his
vigil.
But,
in
reminder
of
those
hours,
his
lamp
was
still
burning.
He
extinguished
it;
and
the
going-out
of
that
tarnished
light
made
perfect
his
sense
of
release.
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