Her countenance was cast in
lines of arrogance, stressed by the low lids of her full dark eyes.
In a bound her well-beloved was beside her, flinging away his bloody
poleaxe, he opened wide his arms to enfold her. But she still shrank
even within his embrace, which would not be denied; a look of dread
had come to temper the normal arrogance of her almost perfect face.
"Mine, mine at last, and in spite of all!" he cried exultantly,
theatrically, truly heroic.
But she, endeavouring to thrust him back, her hands against his
breast, could only falter: "Why, why did you kill him?"
He laughed, as a hero should; and answered her heroically, with the
tolerance of a god for the mortal to whom he condescends: "He stood
between us. Let his death be a symbol, a warning. Let all who
would stand between us mark it and beware."
It was so splendidly terrific, the gesture of it was so broad and
fine and his magnetism so compelling, that she cast her silly
tremors and yielded herself freely, intoxicated, to his fond embrace.
Thereafter he swung her to his shoulder, and stepping with ease
beneath that burden, bore her in a sort of triumph, lustily cheered
by his men, to the deck of his own ship.
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