The blow which had struck him down had been delivered by one who had been a first-class athlete, and who was still in splendid physical condition. There had been the stark madness, too, of blind rage behind Bennet's arm, and the blow had proved fatal.
When the truth was known, there instantly was a great commotion. Bennet made no effort to get away; if he had attempted to fly he would not have succeeded, for he was ringed round by hostile and stern faces that plainly spoke of vengeance. In a moment more hands were laid upon him by those of the crowd nearest him, but he offered no resistance. Instead, he stood staring at the motionless body of his victim, and appeared not to realize what he had done, and the position in which his act had placed him.
Suddenly from somewhere in the crowd a loud cry went up of "Murder! Murder!"
The cry seemed to break the fit of stupor in which Bennet was, for his face was seen to quiver, while a shudder shook his frame.
"What have I done? What have I done?" he said, as if he had just become conscious of the deed he had committed.
"You have killed him," replied one of those standing by.
"He is not dead?" asked Bennet, wildly.
"Dead! yes; he is dead, and you killed him!" answered the same man.
"I never meant to kill him," said Bennet, looking once more at the little figure that lay on the ground.
"Why," said a voice, "I heard you say to him, 'I'll kill you!'—I heard you say those very words!"