Sardanapalus,
Sardanapalus, Sardanapalus! The very name seemed to link itself
with the music in her head. It coursed with her blood. It rang
through her brain. And another as well. Cyril Waring, Cyril Waring,
Cyril Waring, Cyril Waring! Oh! great heavens, what would Cyril
Waring say now, if only he could see her in her mad mood that
moment!
And yet it was not she, not she, not she, but some spirit, some
weird, some unseen power within her. It was no more she than that
boa there was a snake. A real live snake. Oh, for a real live snake!
And then she could dance--tarantel, tarantella--as the spirit within
her prompted her to dance it.
"Faster, faster," said the spirit; and she answered him back,
"Faster!"
Faster, faster, faster, faster she whirled round the room; the
boa grew alive; it coiled about her; it strangled her. Her candle
failed; the wick in the socket flickered and died; but Elma danced
on, unheeding, in the darkness. Dance, dance, dance, dance; never
mind for the light! Oh! what madness was this? What insanity had
come over her? Would her feet never stop? Must she go on till she
dropped? Must she go on for ever?
Ashamed and terrified with her maidenly sense, overawed and
obscured by this hateful charm, yet unable to stay herself, unable
to resist it, in a transport of fear and remorse, she danced on
irresponsibly.
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