Big natures in their fits of explosiveness must be taken by flying shots, as dwarfs peep on a monster, or the Scythian attacked a phalanx.  Were we to hear all the roarings of the shirted Heracles, a world of comfortable little ones would doubt the unselfishness of his love of Dejaneira.  Yes, really; they would think it was not a chivalrous love:  they would consider that he thought of himself too much.  They would doubt, too, of his being a gentleman!  Partial glimpses of him, one may fear, will be discomposing to simple natures.  There was a short black eruption.  Alvan controlled it, to ask hastily what the baroness thought and what she had heard of Clotilde.  Tresten made sign that it was nothing of the best.

’See! my girl has hundreds of enemies, and I, only I, know her and can defend her—­weak, base shallow trickster, traitress that she is!’ cried Alvan, and came down in a thundershower upon her:  ’Yesterday—­the day before—­when? just now, here, in this room; gave herself—­and now!’ He bent, and immediately straightening his back, addressed Colonel von Tresten as her calumniator, ’Say your worst of her, and I say I will make of that girl the peerless woman of earth!  I! in earnest! it’s no dream.  She can be made . . . .  O God! the beast has turned tail!  I knew she could.  There ’s three of beast to one of goddess in her, and set her alone, and let her be hunted and I not by, beast it is with her! cowardly skulking beast—­the noblest and very bravest under my wing!  Incomprehensible to you, Tresten?  But who understands women!  You hate her.  Do not.  She ’s a riddle, but no worse than the rest of the tangle.  She gives me up?  Pooh!  She writes it.  She writes anything.  And that vilest, I say, I will make more enviable, more Clotilde! he thundered her signature in an amazement, broken suddenly by the sight of her putting her name to the letter.  She had done that, written her name to the renunciation of him!  No individual could bear the sight of such a crime, and no suffering man could be appeased by a single victim to atone for it.  Her sex must be slaughtered; he raged against the woman; she became that ancient poisonous thing, the woman; his fury would not distinguish her as Clotilde, though the name had started him, and it was his knowledge of the particular sinner which drew down his curses on the sex.  He twisted his body, hugging at his breast as if he had her letter sticking in his ribs.  The letter was up against his ribs, and he thumped it, crushed it, patted it; he kissed it, and flung it, stamped on it, and was foul-mouthed.  Seeing it at his feet, he bent to it like a man snapped in two, lamenting, bewailing himself, recovering sight of her fragmentarily.  It stuck in his ribs, and in scorn of the writer, and sceptical of her penning it, he tugged to pull it out, and broke the shaft, but left the rankling arrow-head:—­she had traced the lines, and though tyranny racked her to do that thing, his agony followed her hand over the paper to her name, which fixed and bit in him like the deadly-toothed arrow-head called asp, and there was no uprooting it.  The thing lived; her deed was the woman; there was no separating them:  witness it in love murdered.