He foresaw a moment when he would stop, slide to the ground, and with his
sabre kill one man--or more. Yes, he would kill one man. He had a
devilish feeling of delight in thinking how he would do it, and how red
the sabre would look when he had done it. He wished he had a hundred
hands and a hundred sabres in those hands. More than once he had been in
danger of his life, and yet he had had no fear.
He had in him the power of hatred; and he hated Ferrol as he had never
hated anything in his life. He hated him as much as, in a furtive sort
of way, he loved the rebellious, primitive and violent Christine.
As he rode on a hundred fancies passed through his brain, and they all
had to do with killing or torturing. As a boy dreams of magnificent
deeds of prowess, so he dreamed of deeds of violence and cruelty. In his
life he had been secret, not vicious; he had enjoyed the power which
comes from holding the secrets of others, and that had given him pleasure
enough. But now, as if the true passion, the vital principle, asserted
itself at the very last, so with the shadow of death behind him, his real
nature was dominant. He was entirely sane, entirely natural, only
malicious.
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