And Fate,
in fits of laughter at the string-holding! Then Valentine lost his fear,
and could have been angry that such a scarecrow was the creature selected
by Fate to draw a sword against him. He chose to forget the vision in the
mirror when he struck at the staring reflection of the lady of the
feathers and shivered under the influence of a cold terror. He chose
to remember only the thin and fearful woman who had given her body to
the world, and so had surely given her soul to a mill that had long ago
ground it to powder.
There is nothing so terrible to one screwed up to the highest pitch of
action as a monotony of waiting. Scourging were better, the hemp or the
fire. The lady of the feathers had been stirred to a strange enthusiasm,
and to a belief in herself, a faith more wonderful to some, more
unaccustomed and remote than any faith in God or devil. A flood of energy
flowed over her, warm as blood, strong as love, keen with the salt of
beautiful novelty, turbulent as the seas when the great tides take hold
on them. It was to her as if for the moment the world's centre was just
there where she was in the winter, and in the Marylebone Road, within
sound of the great church clock, the great church bells, the cries of
the street, the very steam panting up from the Baker Street Station.
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