So he was tossed in spirit; now bewailing his inconsequence and lack
of temper, now flaming up in white-hot indignation and a noble pity
for himself.
He paced his apartment like a leopard. There was danger in Otto,
for a flash. Like a pistol, he could kill at one moment, and the
next he might he kicked aside. But just then, as he walked the long
floors in his alternate humours, tearing his handkerchief between
his hands, he was strung to his top note, every nerve attent. The
pistol, you might say, was charged. And when jealousy from time to
time fetched him a lash across the tenderest of his feeling, and
sent a string of her fire-pictures glancing before his mind's eye,
the contraction of his face was even dangerous. He disregarded
jealousy's inventions, yet they stung. In this height of anger, he
still preserved his faith in Seraphina's innocence; but the thought
of her possible misconduct was the bitterest ingredient in his pot
of sorrow.
There came a knock at the door, and the chamberlain brought him a
note. He took it and ground it in his hand, continuing his march,
continuing his bewildered thoughts; and some minutes had gone by
before the circumstance came clearly to his mind. Then he paused
and opened it. It was a pencil scratch from Gotthold, thus
conceived:
'The council is privately summoned at once.
G. v. H.'
If the council was thus called before the hour, and that privately,
it was plain they feared his interference.
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