Zuleika Dobson; Or, An Oxford Love Story

“By the way,” she whispered, “I want to ask one little favour of you. Will you, please, at the last moment to-morrow, call out my name in a loud voice, so that every one around can hear?” “Of course I will.” “So that no one shall ever be able to say it wasn’t for me that you died, you know.” “May I use simply your Christian name?” “Yes, I really don’t see why you shouldn’t--at such a moment.” “Thank you.” His face glowed. Thus did they commune, these two, radiant without and within. And behind them, throughout the Hall, the undergraduates craned their necks for a glimpse. The Duke’s piano solo, which was the last item in the first half of the programme, was eagerly awaited. Already, whispered first from the lips of Oover and the others who had come on from the Junta, the news of his resolve had gone from ear to ear among the men. He, for his part, had forgotten the scene at the Junta, the baleful effect of his example. For him the Hall was a cave of solitude--no one there but Zuleika and himself. Yet almost, like the late Mr. John Bright, he heard in the air the beating of the wings of the Angel of Death. Not awful wings; little wings that sprouted from the shoulders of a rosy and blindfold child. Love and Death--for him they were exquisitely one. And it seemed to him, when his turn came to play, that he floated, rather than walked, to the dais.