“My object in coming here,” Daniel continued, “is simply to learn from you the cause of your anger. You must be feeling something very deeply to resort to assassination; but why should you desire to murder me? I am the only person who can help you.”
He assured them of his desire to understand their point of view, and gradually he was able to break down their anxious reserve, so that presently they spoke to him with a certain amount of freedom, and they heard, probably for the first time, the English attitude expounded in terms of idealism. They were fanatical young men whose patriotism was nothing more than dislike of the foreigner, which, indeed, is a large part of all patriotism; and though Daniel made little attempt to argue with them he was able very soon to establish more or less sympathetic relations with his would-be murderers, and perhaps to convince them that bloodshed is foolish.
The situation had a piquancy which amused him vastly; and when, presently, he unloaded the revolver and handed it back to the melancholy figure upon the divan, he could not refrain from laughter, in which, to his surprise, the others joined.
“Cheer up, O son of complaint!” he said. “You ought to be praising God that you are not about to be hanged.” Then, turning to the others, he told them how glad he was that they found cause for mirth in the situation. “Are we not all like the pieces upon a chessboard?” he asked. “But do we realize that God is playing both sides of the game? Remember the words of the Koran: ‘They plotted, and God plotted; and God is the best of plotters.’ Now let us laugh and give thanks that no blood has been spilt, for it is precious stuff; and finally let us agree to forget the incident. So far as I am concerned it is khalâs khâlas—absolutely closed; and on your part, if you have further cause for hostility, come to the Residency and ask for me, but do not bring your revolvers with you or I shall give you no coffee.”
He arrived back at the Residency somewhat late for luncheon, and his high spirits were such that Muriel stared at him in amazement. When the meal was finished she took him aside, as the others left the room, and asked where he had been.
“I took my murderer home,” he explained, “and made friends with his fellow-assassins, and we all had a good laugh together. It seemed to be the best way of settling the matter.”
“O Daniel,” she whispered, “you’re either a hero or else you’re crazy.”
“No,” he answered, “I’m just a philosopher—that is to say, one who sees the comic side of life.”
“There’s not much comedy about the attempted murder of one’s best friend,” she answered.
His face became serious and his eyes sought hers. “Am I your best friend?” he asked.