“But this is preposterous!” cried Benham.  “Preposterous.  Those soldiers are never going to shoot again!  This must stop.”

He stood hesitating for a moment and then turned about and dashed for the staircase.  “Good Heaven!” cried White.  “What are you going to do?”

Benham was going to stop that conflict very much as a man might go to stop a clock that is striking unwarrantably and amazingly.  He was going to stop it because it annoyed his sense of human dignity.

White hesitated for a moment and then followed, crying “Benham!”

But there was no arresting this last outbreak of Benham’s all too impatient kingship.  He pushed aside a ducking German waiter who was peeping through the glass doors, and rushed out of the hotel.  With a gesture of authority he ran forward into the middle of the street, holding up his hand, in which he still held his dinner napkin clenched like a bomb.  White believes firmly that Benham thought he would be able to dominate everything.  He shouted out something about “Foolery!”

Haroun al Raschid was flinging aside all this sublime indifference to current things. . . .

But the carbines spoke again.

Benham seemed to run unexpectedly against something invisible.  He spun right round and fell down into a sitting position.  He sat looking surprised.

After one moment of blank funk White drew out his pocket handkerchief, held it arm high by way of a white flag, and ran out from the piazza of the hotel.

17

“Are you hit?” cried White dropping to his knees and making himself as compact as possible.  “Benham!”

Benham, after a moment of perplexed thought answered in a strange voice, a whisper into which a whistling note had been mixed.

“It was stupid of me to come out here.  Not my quarrel.  Faults on both sides.  And now I can’t get up.  I will sit here a moment and pull myself together.  Perhaps I’m—­I must be shot.  But it seemed to come—­inside me. . . .  If I should be hurt.  Am I hurt? . . .  Will you see to that book of mine, White?  It’s odd.  A kind of faintness. . . .  What?”

“I will see after your book,” said White and glanced at his hand because it felt wet, and was astonished to discover it bright red.  He forgot about himself then, and the fresh flight of bullets down the street.

The immediate effect of this blood was that he said something more about the book, a promise, a definite promise.  He could never recall his exact words, but their intention was binding.  He conveyed his absolute acquiescence with Benham’s wishes whatever they were.  His life for that moment was unreservedly at his friend’s disposal. . . .

White never knew if his promise was heard.  Benham had stopped speaking quite abruptly with that “What?”

He stared in front of him with a doubtful expression, like a man who is going to be sick, and then, in an instant, every muscle seemed to give way, he shuddered, his head flopped, and White held a dead man in his arms.