"Yes, till we come to the bottom of the basket, and have emptied our
one bottle; after that perhaps we might do battle to the poor swans,
and prey upon their eggs; and then the comedy would be over, and the
tragedy would begin. I read one, once, about a Count Ugolino, whom they
threw into a deep dungeon, with his children, to be starved to death.
But I don't think I should like to see it acted; still less, to take a
part in it."
He kept his eyes fixed on the little glass she had brought with her,
and had now filled for him.
"What man cares to sate his body," he murmured, "if his soul be
famished? I should prefer the reverse; should not you?"
"I don't think I always understand you now--you sometimes say odd
things."
"Drink out of this same glass then; and then, you know, you will be
able to guess my thoughts." He held it towards her; his whole face was
glowing, his eyes avoided hers, as they looked at him with surprised
enquiry. She took the glass, but held it in her hand, without drinking.
"I wish it could really help one to guess them. There is a certain
young man of my acquaintance, who used to have no secrets from me, and
of late he has been a mystery with seven seals; but I doubt if the
truth be really in this wine. I rather think----"
She stopped short, for a sudden perception began to dawn on her mind,
though she could hardly trust herself to admit it. He had raised his
eyes now, and was looking at her with wrapt gaze.
"Helen," he said, "when a man feels choking it is too late to ask him
what strangles him? All I know is, that I shall have to go away, and
leave you--"
"Go away! why, what are you thinking of?"
"You may well ask," he said, in a tone of desperation, without
venturing to look up. "I only know too well, I cannot live without
you."
His words thrilled to her very marrow, she held the wineglass
unconsciously, without seeing how she was spilling the wine.
"That is not what I meant," she said. "What makes you talk so
strangely?"
She would have risen, but he seized her hand so eagerly, that she
dropped the glass.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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