It is not because he has fallen in love with her, far from it. The feeling she has inspired in him has at present, at any rate, no particle of love in it, but something draws him on to seeing her—to speaking to her—to saving her from a path that must lead to perdition.
And he smiles almost bitterly at such a feeling possessing him about a singing woman at the Alcazar!
By and by, when the air has cooled his hot temples a little, and the oppressive sort of spell this evening has brought him disperses somewhat, he goes back to the hotel and enters the room where Zai lies fast asleep. How pretty she looks to his feverish eyes! The purity and sweetness of her face come like a glimpse of blue sky after a storm. She is happy, too, for her red lips part in a smile as she clasps her child close to her heart.
Lord Delaval stoops down and kisses her so softly that she never stirs. He is a worshipper of female beauty, and here before him—within his grasp—lies as fair a woman as ever was made to please the eyes of man. His wife—his own! a legitimate object for love and passion and admiration.
But men’s hearts are perverse things.
Noiselessly as he entered he steals away again to the adjoining room, and without undressing, flings himself into an armchair.
Here the break of dawn finds him—still sleepless, but lost in a waking dream of “La Blonde aux yeux noir.”
