The Angel of the Revolution: A Tale of the Coming TerrorGriffith, George Chetwynd
Science
The Angel of the Revolution: A Tale of the Coming Terror
Griffith, George Chetwynd
Science fiction
Trained and disciplined as he had been in the sternest of all
schools, and strengthened as he was by the knowledge of the compact
that existed between them, there were moments when his self-control
was very sorely tried, moments when her hand would be clasped in his,
or rested on his shoulder as he helped her across a stream or down
some steep hillside, or when in the midst of some animated discussion
she would stop short and face him, and suddenly confound his logic
with a flash from her eyes and a smile on her lips that literally
forced him to put forth a muscular effort to prevent himself from
catching her in his arms and risking everything for just one kiss,
one taste of the forbidden fruit within his reach, and yet parted
from him by a sea of blood and flame that still lay between the world
and that empire of peace which he had promised to win for her sweet
sake.
Once, and once only, she had tried him almost too far. They had been
discussing the possibility of ruling the world without the ultimate
appeal to force, when the nations, weary at length of war, should
have consented to disarm, and she, carried away by her own eloquent
pleading for the ultimate triumph of peace and goodwill on earth, had
laid her hand upon his arm, and was looking up at him with her lovely
face aglow with the sweetest expression even he had ever seen upon
it.
Their eyes met, and there was a sudden silence between them. The
eloquent words died upon her lips, and a deep flush rose to her
cheeks and then faded instantly away, leaving her pale and with a
look almost of terror in her eyes. He took a quick step backwards,
and, turning away as though he feared to look any longer upon her
beauty, said in a low tone that trembled with the strength of his
repressed passion--
"Natasha, for God's sake remember that I am only made of flesh and
blood!"
In a moment she was by his side again, this time with her eyes
downcast and her proud little head bent as though in acknowledgment
of his reproof. Then she looked up again, and held out her hand and
said--
"Forgive me; I have done wrong! Let us be friends again!"
There was a gentle emphasis on the word "friends" that was
irresistible. He took her hand in silence, and after a pressure that
was almost imperceptibly returned, let it go again, and they walked
on together; but there was very little more said between them that
evening.
This had happened one afternoon towards the middle of September, and
two days later their delightful companionship came suddenly to an
end, and the bond that existed between them was severed in a moment
without warning, as a nerve thrilling with pleasure might be cut by
an unexpected blow with a knife.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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