his conqueror stood staring down at him. He seemed to stand above them
all in that his moment of dreadful victory.

He spoke at length, and through his voice there ran a curious tremor as
of a man a little giddy, a little dazed by immense and appalling height.

"I thought I could do it!" he said. "I--thought I could!"

It was his moment of triumph, of irresistible elation. The devil in him
had fought--and conquered.

It swayed him--and passed. He was left white to the lips and suddenly,
terribly, afraid.

"What have I done to him?" he asked, and the tremor was gone from his
voice; it was level, dead level. "I haven't killed him really, have I?"

No one answered him. They were crowding round the fallen man, stooping
over him with awe-struck whispering, straightening the crumpled, inert
limbs, trying to place the heavy frame in a natural posture.

The boy pressed forward to look, but abruptly his supporter caught him by
the shoulder and pulled him back.

"No, no!" he said in a sharp undertone. "You're no good here. Get out of
it! Put on your clothes and--go!"

He spoke urgently. The boy stared at him, suffering the compelling hand.
All the fight had gone completely out of him. He was passive with the
paralysis of a great horror.