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Zuleika Dobson; Or, An Oxford Love Story
·
Sir Max Beerbohm
242
All
along
the
soaked
towing-path
lay
strewn
the
horns,
the
rattles,
the
motor-hooters,
that
the
youths
had
flung
aside
before
they
leapt.
Here
and
there
among
these
relics
stood
dazed
elder
men,
staring
through
the
storm.
There
was
one
of
them--a
grey-beard--who
stripped
off
his
blazer,
plunged,
grabbed
at
some
live
man,
grappled
him,
was
dragged
under.
He
came
up
again
further
along
stream,
swam
choking
to
the
bank,
clung
to
the
grasses.
He
whimpered
as
he
sought
foot-hold
in
the
slime.
It
was
ill
to
be
down
in
that
abominable
sink
of
death.
Abominable,
yes,
to
them
who
discerned
there
death
only;
but
sacramental
and
sweet
enough
to
the
men
who
were
dying
there
for
love.
Any
face
that
rose
was
smiling.
The
thunder
receded;
the
rain
was
less
vehement:
the
boats
and
the
oars
had
drifted
against
the
banks.
And
always
the
patient
river
bore
its
awful
burden
towards
Iffley.
As
on
the
towing-path,
so
on
the
youth-bereft
rafts
of
the
barges,
yonder,
stood
many
stupefied
elders,
staring
at
the
river,
staring
back
from
the
river
into
one
another’s
faces.
Dispeopled
now
were
the
roofs
of
the
barges.
Under
the
first
drops
of
the
rain
most
of
the
women
had
come
huddling
down
for
shelter
inside;
panic
had
presently
driven
down
the
rest.
Yet
on
one
roof
one
woman
still
was.
A
strange,
drenched
figure,
she
stood
bright-eyed
in
the
dimness;
alone,
as
it
was
well
she
should
be
in
her
great
hour;
draining
the
lees
of
such
homage
as
had
come
to
no
woman
in
history
recorded.
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