Although for long months after the agony of that June day, nothing
but hate and passion and misery had the ruling of him.
He could not bear his kind. His father and Captain Grigsby had left the
yacht to him and let him cruise alone. But who can know of the hideous,
ghastly hours that Paul spent then, ever obsessed with this one bitter
thought? Why had he not gone back? Why had he not gone back when that
impulse had seized him? Why had Vasili, and not he, had the satisfaction of
killing this vile slayer of his Queen?
Even the remembrance of his child did not rouse him. It was safe with the
Grand Duke Peter--a king at four months old! But what of sons, or kings or
countries--nothing could make up for the loss of his Queen! And to think
that she had died to save him! Save him from what? A brush with three
besotted drunkards, whom it would have been great joy to kill!
There were moments when Paul went mad with passion, and lay and writhed in
his berth. So long months passed, and at last he dominated himself enough
to come back to his home.
And if the Lady Henrietta had exclaimed that he appeared ill before on his
return, she was dumb now with sorrow at the change. For Paul had looked
upon Medusa's head of horror, and, as well as his heart, his face seemed
turned to stone.
Pages:
193
194
195
196
197
198
199
200
201
202
203
204
205
206
207
208
209
210
211
212
213
214
215
216
217