The Lady, or the Tiger? - Frank R. Stockton (best thriller novels of all time .TXT) 📗

asked in a flash; it must be answered in another.

Her right arm lay on the cushioned parapet before her. She raised

her hand, and made a slight, quick movement toward the right. No

one but her lover saw her. Every eye but his was fixed on the man

in the arena.

He turned, and with a firm and rapid step he walked across the

empty space. Every heart stopped beating, every breath was held,

every eye was fixed immovably upon that man. Without the

slightest hesitation, he went to the door on the right, and opened

it.

Now, the point of the story is this: Did the tiger come out of that

door, or did the lady ?

The more we reflect upon this question, the harder it is to

answer. It involves a study of the human heart which leads us

through devious mazes of passion, out of which it is difficult to

find our way. Think of it, fair reader, not as if the decision of the

question depended upon yourself, but upon that hot-blooded,

semi-barbaric princess, her soul at a white heat beneath the

combined fires of despair and jealousy. She had lost him, but who

should have him?

How often, in her waking hours and in her dreams, had she started

in wild horror, and covered her face with her hands as she thought

of her lover opening the door on the other side of which waited

the cruel fangs of the tiger!

But how much oftener had she seen him at the other door! How in

her grievous reveries had she gnashed her teeth, and torn her hair,

when she saw his start of rapturous delight as he opened the door

of the lady! How her soul had burned in agony when she had seen

him rush to meet that woman, with her flushing cheek and

sparkling eye of triumph; when she had seen him lead her forth,

his whole frame kindled with the joy of recovered life; when she

had heard the glad shouts from the multitude, and the wild

ringing of the happy bells; when she had seen the priest, with his

joyous followers, advance to the couple, and make them man and

wife before her very eyes; and when she had seen

them walk away together upon their path of flowers, followed by

the tremendous shouts of the hilarious multitude, in which her

one despairing shriek was lost and drowned!

Would it not be better for him to die at once, and go to wait for

her in the blessed regions of semi-barbaric futurity?

And yet, that awful tiger, those shrieks, that blood!

Her decision had been indicated in an instant, but it had been

made after days and nights of anguished deliberation. She had

known she would be asked, she had decided what she would

answer, and, without the slightest hesitation, she had moved her

hand to the right.

The question of her decision is one not to be lightly considered,

and it is not for me to presume to set myself up as the one person

able to answer it. And so I leave it with all of you: Which came

out of the opened door,—the lady, or the tiger?

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