The two sides of his nature warred like opposing forces. The wild
passion of Othello was in him. He could have snatched up the slender
white-and-gold figure, wrapped the shining jewelled head in the trailing
scarf of point lace, and rushed away with the girl in his
arms--anywhere, far from these people who had no right to be near her.
He could not bear to see the Maharajah's eyes on her face and on her
long white throat. A hateful thought sprang into his mind concerning the
rope of Indian pearls, with ruby and emerald tassels, tied loosely round
her neck. He wondered if the Maharajah of Indorwana had given it to her,
if she would have accepted such a gift from the brown man; and the
thought seemed to take colour in his brain, as if it were a bright
scarlet spot which grew larger and redder, spreading behind his eyes
till he could see nothing else.
Vanno had told himself many times that he must not draw too near this
girl; that for the sake of love's nobility, for the sake of his respect
for womanhood sacred in her and in all women, he must not draw near
unless her soul were a star behind the eyes that were like stars. And he
had not been able to believe in the stars for more than a few happy,
exalted moments, which passed and came again, only to be blotted out
once more.
But now, suddenly, it no longer mattered whether he believed or not. He
had to try and tear her away from the life she was leading. He did not
know which impulse was master--the impulse to save a soul, or the
impulse to possess selfishly a thing coveted; at least, to snatch it
from others, if he did not take it for himself.
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