(He told me afterwards that he had to eat something now and then and to sleep a little, and that weakened him—strengthened him—strengthened his body and weakened the passing, you know.)
But the next day it was all right again. I was Benlian's again. And I wondered, when I remembered his struggle, whether a dying man had ever fought for life as hard as Benlian was fighting to get away from it and pass himself.
The next time after that that he fetched me—called me—whatever you like to name it—I burst into his studio like a bullet. He was sunk in a big chair, gaunt as a mummy now, and all the life in him seemed to burn in the bottom of his deep eye-sockets. At the sight of him I fiddled with my knuckles and giggled.
"You are going it, Benlian!" I said.
"Am I not?" he replied, in a voice that was scarcely a breath.
"You meant me to bring the camera and magnesium, didn't you?" (I had snatched them up when I felt his call, and had brought them.)
"Yes. Go ahead."
So I placed the camera before him, made all ready, and took the magnesium ribbon in a pair of pincers.
"Are you ready?" I said; and lighted the ribbon.
The studio seemed to leap with the blinding glare. The ribbon spat and spluttered. I snapped the shutter, and the fumes drifted away and hung in clouds in the roof.