Потерянный континент: история Атлантиды
13. The Burying Alive Of Nais
Herbreathcamewarmagainstmycheek,andthelovelinessofherfacesocloseathandsurpassesthedescriptionofwords.IthinkitwasinhermindthatIshouldkisstheredlipswhichwereheldsoneartomine,butwillingthoughIwastoplaythepartappointed,Icouldnotbringmyselftothat.Sowhenthestoneblockhadswung,shedrewawaywithasigh,andwewentonwithoutfurtherspeech.
“MaytheHighGodstreatyoutenderly,”Isaid,whenwecametothedoorofherbed-chamber.
“IammyownGod,”saidshe,“inallthingsbutone.Bymyface!youareatardywooer,Deucalion.Wheredoyougonow?”
“Tomyownchamber.”
“Oh,gothen,go.”
“IsthereanythingmoreIcoulddo?”
“Nothingthatyourwitoryourwillwouldpromptyouto.Yes,indeed,youarefinelydecorous,Deucalion,inyourold-fashionedway,butyouareamightypoorwooer.Don’tyouknow,myman,thatawomanesteemssomethingsthemorehighlyiftheyaretakenfromherbyrudeforce?”
“ItseemsIknowlittleenoughaboutwomen.”
“Youneversaidatruerword.Bah!AndIbelieveyourcoldnessbringsyoumorebenefitinacertainmatterthananyshowofpassioncouldearn.There,getyougone,iftheatmosphereofamaiden’sbed-chamberhurtsyourrusticmodesty,andyourGodskeepyou,Deucalion,ifthat’sthephrase,andifyouthinkTheycandoit.Getyougone,man,andleavemesolitary.”
Ihadtakentheplanofthepyramidoutofthearchivesbeforethebanquetandlearneditthoroughly,andsowasabletothreadmywaythroughitsangularmazeswithoutpauseorblunder.
