Zuleika Dobson; Or, An Oxford Love Story

“And you are sure they really MEANT it?” she asked in a voice that trembled. “I fear so. But they were over-excited. They will recant their folly. I shall force them to.” “They are not children. You yourself have just been calling them ‘men.’ Why should they obey you?” She turned at sound of a footstep, and saw a young man approaching. He wore a coat like the Duke’s, and in his hand he dangled a handkerchief. He bowed awkwardly, and, holding out the handkerchief, said to her “I beg your pardon, but I think you dropped this. I have just picked it up.” Zuleika looked at the handkerchief, which was obviously a man’s, and smilingly shook her head. “I don’t think you know The MacQuern,” said the Duke, with sulky grace. “This,” he said to the intruder, “is Miss Dobson.” “And is it really true,” asked Zuleika, retaining The MacQuern’s hand, “that you want to die for me?” Well, the Scots are a self-seeking and a resolute, but a shy, race; swift to act, when swiftness is needed, but seldom knowing quite what to say. The MacQuern, with native reluctance to give something for nothing, had determined to have the pleasure of knowing the young lady for whom he was to lay down his life; and this purpose he had, by the simple stratagem of his own handkerchief, achieved. Nevertheless, in answer to Zuleika’s question, and with the pressure of her hand to inspire him, the only word that rose to his lips was “Ay” (which may be roughly translated as “Yes”).