It was only for an instant, however, for there swept through him the feeling that Fleda had roused in him--the first real passion, the first true love--if what such as he felt can be love--that he had ever known; and he saw her again as she was in the but in the wood defying him, ready to defend herself against him.

All his erotic anger and melodramatic fervour were alive in him once more.
He was again a man with a wrong, a lover dispossessed.

On the instant his veins filled with passionate blood.

The Roscian strain in him had its own tragic force and reality.
"My home is where my own is, and you, have taken my own from me, as I said," he burst out.

"There was all the world for you, but I had only my music and my wife, and you have taken my wife from me.