Far down, very far down, so far that nobody had ever seen it, nor himself ever expected it, there was a lurking instinct in Beauty,— the instinct that had prompted him, when he sent the King at the Grand Military cracker, with that prayer, Kill me if you like, but don’t fail me!— which, out of the languor and pleasure-loving temper of his unruffled life, had a vague, restless impulse toward the fiery perils and nervous excitement of a sterner and more stirring career.7