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Zuleika Dobson; Or, An Oxford Love Story
·
Sir Max Beerbohm
93
Gently,
vainly,
he
still
sought
to
unclasp
her
fingers
from
his
arm.
“Not
now!”
she
whispered.
“Not
yet!”
And
the
noise
of
the
cheering,
and
of
the
trumpeting
and
rattling,
as
it
drew
near,
was
an
accompaniment
to
her
joy
in
having
saved
her
lover.
She
would
keep
him
with
her--for
a
while!
Let
all
be
done
in
order.
She
would
savour
the
full
sweetness
of
his
sacrifice.
Tomorrow--to-morrow,
yes,
let
him
have
his
heart’s
desire
of
death.
Not
now!
Not
yet!
“To-morrow,”
she
whispered,
“to-morrow,
if
you
will.
Not
yet!”
The
first
boat
came
jerking
past
in
mid-stream;
and
the
towing-path,
with
its
serried
throng
of
runners,
was
like
a
live
thing,
keeping
pace.
As
in
a
dream,
Zuleika
saw
it.
And
the
din
was
in
her
ears.
No
heroine
of
Wagner
had
ever
a
louder
accompaniment
than
had
ours
to
the
surging
soul
within
her
bosom.
And
the
Duke,
tightly
held
by
her,
vibrated
as
to
a
powerful
electric
current.
He
let
her
cling
to
him,
and
her
magnetism
range
through
him.
Ah,
it
was
good
not
to
have
died!
Fool,
he
had
meant
to
drain
off-hand,
at
one
coarse
draught,
the
delicate
wine
of
death.
He
would
let
his
lips
caress
the
brim
of
the
august
goblet.
He
would
dally
with
the
aroma
that
was
there.
“So
be
it!”
he
cried
into
Zuleika’s
ear--cried
loudly,
for
it
seemed
as
though
all
the
Wagnerian
orchestras
of
Europe,
with
the
Straussian
ones
thrown
in,
were
here
to
clash
in
unison
the
full
volume
of
right
music
for
the
glory
of
the
reprieve.
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