Zuleika Dobson; Or, An Oxford Love Story

“Go right ahead, Duke,” said Mr. Oover. “I’ll re-ply when my turn comes.” “And not utterly demolish me, I hope,” said the Duke. His was the Oxford manner. “Gentlemen,” he continued, “is it possible that Britannia would have thrown her helmet in the air, shrieking ‘Slavery for ever’? You, gentlemen, seem to think slavery a pleasant and an honourable state. You have less experience of it than I. I have been enslaved to Miss Dobson since yesterday evening; you, only since this afternoon; I, at close quarters; you, at a respectful distance. Your fetters have not galled you yet. MY wrists, MY ankles, are excoriated. The iron has entered into my soul. I droop. I stumble. Blood flows from me. I quiver and curse. I writhe. The sun mocks me. The moon titters in my face. I can stand it no longer. I will no more of it. Tomorrow I die.” The flushed faces of the diners grew gradually pale. Their eyes lost lustre. Their tongues clove to the roofs of their mouths. At length, almost inaudibly, The MacQuern asked “Do you mean you are going to commit suicide?” “Yes,” said the Duke, “if you choose to put it in that way. Yes. And it is only by a chance that I did not commit suicide this afternoon.” “You--don’t--say,” gasped Mr. Oover. “I do indeed,” said the Duke. “And I ask you all to weigh well my message.” “But--but does Miss Dobson know?” asked Sir John. “Oh yes,” was the reply. “Indeed, it was she who persuaded me not to die till to-morrow.”