full--the conviction came back to him that there were breadths and depths
and heights about which he had no conception even. And an ice hand
clutched his heart. Of what strange thing was she thinking? leaning over
the parapet there, her delicate nostrils quivering now and then.

"Paul," she said at last, "did you ever want to kill any one? Did you ever
long to have them there at your mercy, to choke their life out and throw
them to hell?"

"Good God, no!" said Paul aghast.

Then at last she looked up at him, and her eyes were black with hate.
"Well, I do, Paul. I would like to kill one man on earth--a useless,
vicious weakling, too feeble to deserve a fine death--a rotting carrion
spoiling God's world and encumbering my path! I would kill him if I
could--and more than ever today."

"Oh, my Queen, my Queen!" said Paul, distressed. "Don't say such
things--you, my own tender woman and love--"

"Yes, that is one side of me, and the best--but there is another, which he
draws forth, and that is the worst. You of calm England do not know what
it means--the true passion of hate."

"Can I do nothing for you, beloved?" Paul asked. Here was a phase which he
had not yet seen.

"Ah!" she said, bitterly, and threw up her head. "No! his high place
protects him. But for his life I would conquer all fate."