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Zuleika Dobson; Or, An Oxford Love Story
·
Sir Max Beerbohm
92
“The
race?”
She
laughed
hysterically.
“Yes.
‘They’re
off’.”
He
mingled
his
laughter
with
hers,
gently
seeking
to
disengage
his
arm.
“And
perhaps,”
he
said,
“I,
clinging
to
the
weeds
of
the
river’s
bed,
shall
see
dimly
the
boats
and
the
oars
pass
over
me,
and
shall
be
able
to
gurgle
a
cheer
for
Judas.”
“Don’t!”
she
shuddered,
with
a
woman’s
notion
that
a
jest
means
levity.
A
tumult
of
thoughts
surged
in
her,
all
confused.
She
only
knew
that
he
must
not
die--not
yet!
A
moment
ago,
his
death
would
have
been
beautiful.
Not
now!
Her
grip
of
his
arm
tightened.
Only
by
breaking
her
wrist
could
he
have
freed
himself.
A
moment
ago,
she
had
been
in
the
seventh-heaven...
Men
were
supposed
to
have
died
for
love
of
her.
It
had
never
been
proved.
There
had
always
been
something--card-debts,
ill-health,
what
not--to
account
for
the
tragedy.
No
man,
to
the
best
of
her
recollection,
had
ever
hinted
that
he
was
going
to
die
for
her.
Never,
assuredly,
had
she
seen
the
deed
done.
And
then
came
he,
the
first
man
she
had
loved,
going
to
die
here,
before
her
eyes,
because
she
no
longer
loved
him.
But
she
knew
now
that
he
must
not
die--not
yet!
All
around
her
was
the
hush
that
falls
on
Oxford
when
the
signal
for
the
race
has
sounded.
In
the
distance
could
be
heard
faintly
the
noise
of
cheering--a
little
sing-song
sound,
drawing
nearer.
Ah,
how
could
she
have
thought
of
letting
him
die
so
soon?
She
gazed
into
his
face--the
face
she
might
never
have
seen
again.
Even
now,
but
for
that
gun-shot,
the
waters
would
have
closed
over
him,
and
his
soul,
maybe,
have
passed
away.
She
had
saved
him,
thank
heaven!
She
had
him
still
with
her.
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