Zuleika Dobson; Or, An Oxford Love Story

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.