Below the Brutes 193
What masters of irony the gods are! I had been
swimming in a glowing flood of glory; I had been
almost delirious to think I was the wife of a man in
whose veins ran the blood of England’s greatest king ;
of him whose glamour had gilded the centuries with
romance; to think that I might hold such royal heir-
ship under my heart. What radiant rapture !
And Peter himself had shown himself worthy of his
ancestry. Had not he too beaten back the heathen
and saved England?
So this was the end of my dream! This brawling
ruffian was my man!
I sat stupefied while his incoherent insults battered
my brain; but my indignation was not for myself.
I had deserved all I was getting; but what right had
this foul-mouthed coward to takein his mouth the name
of a man like King Lamus?
My silence seemed to exasperate him more than if
I had taken up the quarrel. He swayed and swore with
blind ferocity. He didn’t seem to know where I was.
It was getting dark. He groped his way round the
room looking for me; but he passed me twice before
he found me. The third time he stumbled up against
me, gripped me by the shoulder, and began to strike.
I sat as if I were paralysed. I could not even scream.
Again and again he swore and struck me savagely,
yet so weakly that I could not feel the blows. Besides,
I was dulled to all possible pain. Presently he collapsed,
and rolled over on the. bed. I thought for a moment
he was dead, and then he was seized by a series of
spasms ; his muscles twisted and twitched; his hands
clawed at the air; he began to mutter rapidly and un-
intelligibly. I was horribly frightened.
I got up and lit the gas. The poor boy’s face was
white as death; but small, dark crimson flushes burnt
on the cheek-bones.
I sat at the table for some time and thought. I
didn’t dare send for a doctor. He might know what
was the matter and take him away from me; take