Zuleika Dobson; Or, An Oxford Love Story

And there was another faint sound that came to the Duke’s ears. It he understood when, a moment later, he saw the surface of the river alive with infinitesimal fountains. Rain! His very mantle was aspersed. In another minute he would stand sodden, inglorious, a mock. He didn’t hesitate. “Zuleika!” he cried in a loud voice. Then he took a deep breath, and, burying his face in his mantle, plunged. Full on the river lay the mantle outspread. Then it, too, went under. A great roll of water marked the spot. The plumed hat floated. There was a confusion of shouts from the raft, of screams from the roof. Many youths--all the youths there--cried “Zuleika!” and leapt emulously headlong into the water. “Brave fellows!” shouted the elder men, supposing rescue-work. The rain pelted, the thunder pealed. Here and there was a glimpse of a young head above water--for an instant only. Shouts and screams now from the infected barges on either side. A score of fresh plunges. “Splendid fellows!” Meanwhile, what of the Duke? I am glad to say that he was alive and (but for the cold he had caught last night) well. Indeed, his mind had never worked more clearly than in this swift dim underworld. His mantle, the cords of it having come untied, had drifted off him, leaving his arms free. With breath well-pent, he steadily swam, scarcely less amused than annoyed that the gods had, after all, dictated the exact time at which he should seek death.