As White read through this manuscript he was reminded of a score of schoolboy discussions Benham and he and Prothero had had together.  Here was the same old toughness of mind, a kind of intellectual hardihood, that had sometimes shocked his schoolfellows.  Benham had been one of those boys who do not originate ideas very freely, but who go out to them with a fierce sincerity.  He believed and disbelieved with emphasis.  Prothero had first set him doubting, but it was Benham’s own temperament took him on to denial.  His youthful atheism had been a matter for secret consternation in White.  White did not believe very much in God even then, but this positive disbelieving frightened him.  It was going too far.  There had been a terrible moment in the dormitory, during a thunderstorm, a thunderstorm so vehement that it had awakened them all, when Latham, the humourist and a quietly devout boy, had suddenly challenged Benham to deny his Maker.

“Now say you don’t believe in God?”

Benham sat up in bed and repeated his negative faith, while little Hopkins, the Bishop’s son, being less certain about the accuracy of Providence than His aim, edged as far as he could away from Benham’s cubicle and rolled his head in his bedclothes.

“And anyhow,” said Benham, when it was clear that he was not to be struck dead forthwith, “you show a poor idea of your God to think he’d kill a schoolboy for honest doubt.  Even old Roddles—­”

“I can’t listen to you,” cried Latham the humourist, “I can’t listen to you.  It’s—­horrible.”

“Well, who began it?” asked Benham.

A flash of lightning lit the dormitory and showed him to White white-faced and ablaze with excitement, sitting up with the bed-clothes about him.  “Oh wow!” wailed the muffled voice of little Hopkins as the thunder burst like a giant pistol overhead, and he buried his head still deeper in the bedclothes and gave way to unappeasable grief.

Latham’s voice came out of the darkness.  “This atheism that you and Billy Prothero have brought into the school—­”

He started violently at another vivid flash, and every one remained silent, waiting for the thunder. . . .

But White remembered no more of the controversy because he had made a frightful discovery that filled and blocked his mind.  Every time the lightning flashed, there was a red light in Benham’s eyes. . . .

It was only three days after when Prothero discovered exactly the same phenomenon in the School House boothole and talked of cats and cattle, that White’s confidence in their friend was partially restored. . . .

4

“Fear, the First Limitation”—­his title indicated the spirit of Benham’s opening book very clearly.  His struggle with fear was the very beginning of his soul’s history.  It continued to the end.  He had hardly decided to lead the noble life before he came bump against the fact that he was a physical coward.  He felt fear acutely.  “Fear,” he wrote, “is the foremost and most persistent of the shepherding powers that keep us in the safe fold, that drive us back to the beaten track and comfort and—­futility.  The beginning of all aristocracy is the subjugation of fear.”