I don't think Terry had what the phrenologists call "the lump of philoprogenitiveness" at all well developed.
"Morbid one-sided cripples," he called them, even when from his window he could see their splendid vigor and beauty; even while Moadine, as patient and friendly as if she had never helped Alima to hold and bind him, sat there in the room, the picture of wisdom and serene strength.
"Sexless, epicene, undeveloped neuters!" he went on bitterly.

He sounded like Sir Almwroth Wright.
Well--it was hard.

He was madly in love with Alima, really; more so than he had ever been before, and their tempestuous courtship, quarrels, and reconciliations had fanned the flame.

And then when he sought by that supreme conquest which seems so natural a thing to that type of man, to force her to love him as her master--to have the sturdy athletic furious woman rise up and master him--she and her friends--it was no wonder he raged.
Come to think of it, I do not recall a similar case in all history or fiction.

Women have killed themselves rather than submit to outrage; they have killed the outrager; they have escaped; or they have submitted--sometimes seeming to get on very well with the victor afterward.