equate to account for what I did. Yet I can give no other reason. I
had no relenting toward Wetter as a man, as companion, or as former
friend. I was not remorseful about my own part in the affair, and did
not now accuse myself of being responsible for the quarrel.
Suddenly--and I record the feeling for what it is worth--it came upon me
that I must not kill him. Why? That Englishman would laugh. I am
inclined to laugh myself. Well, I was only twenty-four, and, moreover,
in a state of high tension, fresh from great emotional excitement and a
sleepless night. Because he was one of my people, and great among them;
because he might do great things for them; because he was one of those
given to me, for whom I was answerable. I can get no nearer to it--it
was something of that kind. Some conception of it may be gained if I say
that I have never signed a death-warrant without a struggle against a
somewhat similar feeling. Whatever it was, it resulted in an inability
to try to kill him. As Varvilliers' voice pronounced in clear quiet
tones "Fire!" I shifted my aim gently and imperceptibly. If it were true
now, the ball would pass his ear and bury itself in the wainscoting
behind.

"One--two--three!"

I fired on the last word; I saw the smoke of Wetter's pistol; he stood
motionless. In an instant I felt myself hit. I was amazed. I was hit,
shot through the body. I staggered, and should have fallen; Vohrenlorf
ran to me, and I sank back in his arms. My head was clear, and I saw the
order of events that followed. Varvilliers also had started toward me.
Suddenly he stopped. Wetter had rushed across the room toward where the
cartridges lay. Varvilliers sprang upon him and caught him resolutely by
the shoulders. I myself cried, "Stop him!" even as I sank on the
ground, my shoulders propped up against the wall. Before more could
happen there was a loud rapping at the door, and the handle was twisted
furiously. Somebody cried, "Go for a doctor!" Then came Varvilliers'
voice, "You go, Wetter. We trust you to go. Who the devil's at the
door?" He sprang across and opened it. Vohrenlorf was asking me in
trembling whispers where I was hit. I paid no heed to him. The door
opened, and to my amazement William Adolphus ran in, closely followed by
Coralie Mansoni. I was past speaking, soon I became past consciousness.
The last I remember is that Coralie was kneeling by me, Vohrenlorf still
supporting me, the rest standing round. Yet, though I d