Yes, they were right, those views.  A woman, to be dangerous, must appeal to both the body and brain of a man.  If his feeling for Zara were only for the body then it was true that it was only lust.

But it was not true; and he thought of all his dreams of her at Wrayth, of the pictures he had drawn of their future life together, of the tenderness with which he had longed for this night.

And then his anger died down and was replaced by a passionate grief.

His dream lay in ruins, and there was nothing to look forward to but a blank, soulless life.  It did not seem to him then, in the cold moonlight, that things could ever come right.  He could not for his pride’s sake condescend to any further explanation with her.  He would not stoop to defend himself; she must think what she chose, until she should of herself find out the truth.

And then his level mind turned and tried to see her point of view.  He must not be unjust.  And he realized that if she thought such base things of him she had been more or less right.  But, even so, there was some mystery beyond all this—­some cruel and oppressing dark shadow in her life.

And his thoughts went back to the night they had first met, and he remembered then that her eyes had been full of hate—­resentment and hate—­as though he, personally, had caused her some injury.

Francis Markrute was so very clever:  what plan had he had in his head?  By what scorpion whip had he perhaps forced her to consent to his wishes and become his—­Tristram’s—­wife?  And once more the disturbing remembrance of Mimo returned, so that, when at last dawn came and he went back to the hotel, tired out in body and soul, it would not let him rest in his bed.  His bed—­in the next room his wife!

But one clear decision he had come to.  He would treat her with cold courtesy, and they would play the game.  To part now, in a dramatic manner, the next day after the wedding, was not in his sense of the fitness of things, was not what was suitable or seemly for the Tancred name.

And when he had left her Zara had stood quite still.  Some not understood astonishment caused all her passion to die down.  For all the pitifully cruel experiences of her life she was still very young—­young and ignorant of any but the vilest of men.  Hitherto she had felt when they were kind that it was for some gain, and if a woman relented a second she would be sure to be trapped.  For her self-respect and her soul’s sake she must go armed at all points.  And after her hurling at him all her scorn, instead of her husband turning round and perhaps beating her (as, certainly, Ladislaus would have done), he had answered with dignity and gone out of the room.

And she remembered her father’s cold mien.  Perhaps there was something else in the English—­some other finer quality which she did not yet understand.

The poor, beautiful creature was like some ill-treated animal ready to bite to defend itself at the sight of a man.