“Have you told Denzil?”
“Not yet.”
“Better do so then,” and Gervase glanced up at the sky, now glowing red with a fiery sunset. “He wants to propose, you know.”
“Good God!” cried the Doctor, sharply, “If he proposes to that woman …”
“Why should he not?” demanded Gervase. “Is she not as ripe for love and fit for marriage as any other of her sex?”
“Her sex!” echoed the Doctor grimly. “Her sex!—There!—for heaven’s sake don’t talk to me!—leave me alone! The Princess Ziska is like no woman living; she has none of the sentiments of a woman,—and the notion of Denzil’s being such a fool as to think of proposing to her—Oh, leave me alone, I tell you! Let me worry this out!”
And clapping his hat well down over his eyes, he began to walk away in a strange condition of excitement, which he evidently had some difficulty in suppressing. Suddenly, however, he turned, came back and tapped Gervase smartly on the chest.
“You are the man for the Princess,” he said impressively. “There is a madness in you which you call love for her; you are her fitting mate, not that poor boy, Denzil Murray. In certain men and women spirit leaps to spirit,—note responds to note—and if all the world were to interpose its trumpery bulk, nothing could prevent such tumultuous forces rushing together. Follow your destiny, Monsieur Gervase, but do not ruin another man’s life on the way. Follow your destiny,—complete it,—you are bound to do so,—but in the havoc and wildness to come, for God’s sake, let the innocent go free!”
He spoke with extraordinary solemnity, and Gervase stared at him in utter bewilderment and perplexity, not understanding in the least what he meant. But before he could interpose a word or ask a question, Dr. Dean had gone.