There opposed to him stood I, a little soiled,
perhaps, but still a rather elaborately civilised human being, born,
bred and trained in a vague tradition. In my hand was an unaccustomed
gun. And each of us was essentially a teeming, vivid brain, tensely
excited by the encounter, quite unaware of the other's mental content or
what to do with him.
He stepped back a pace or so, stumbled and turned to run.
"Stop," I cried; "stop, you fool!" and started to run after him,
shouting such things in English. But I was no match for him over the
roots and mud.
I had a preposterous idea. "He mustn't get away and tell them!"
And with that instantly I brought both feet together, raised my gun,
aimed quite coolly, drew the trigger carefully and shot him neatly in
the back.
I saw, and saw with a leap of pure exaltation, the smash of my bullet
between his shoulder blades. "Got him," said I, dropping my gun and down
he flopped and died without a groan. "By Jove!" I cried with note of
surprise, "I've killed him!" I looked about me and then went forward
cautiously, in a mood between curiosity and astonishment, to look at
this man whose soul I had flung so unceremoniously out of our common
world.
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