"Well, I do, Paul. I would like to kill one man on earth--a useless,
vicious weakling, too feeble to deserve a fine death--a rotting carrion
spoiling God's world and encumbering my path! I would kill him if I
could--and more than ever today."
"Oh, my Queen, my Queen!" said Paul, distressed. "Don't say such
things--you, my own tender woman and love--"
"Yes, that is one side of me, and the best--but there is another, which he
draws forth, and that is the worst. You of calm England do not know what
it means--the true passion of hate."
"Can I do nothing for you, beloved?" Paul asked. Here was a phase which he
had not yet seen.
"Ah!" she said, bitterly, and threw up her head. "No! his high place
protects him. But for his life I would conquer all fate."
"Darling, darling--" said Paul, who knew not what to say.
"But, Paul, if a hair of your head should be hurt, I would kill him myself
with these my own hands."
Once Paul had seen two tigers fight in a travelling circus-van which came
to Oxford, and now the memory of the scene returned to him when he looked
at his lady's face. He had not known a human countenance could express
such fierce, terrible rage. A quiver ran through him. Yes, this was no
idle boast of an angry woman--he felt those slender hands would indeed be
capable of dealing death to any one who robbed her of her mate.
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