"Paul," she said at last, "did you ever want to kill any one? Did you ever long to have them there at your mercy, to choke their life out and throw them to hell?"
"Good God, no!" said Paul aghast.
Then at last she looked up at him, and her eyes were black with hate. "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.