The peasant surveyed him from the further side.
"Don't be afraid!" cried the peasant in his clumsy Valaisian French,
and returned, returning along the plank that seemed quite
sufficiently loaded without him, extending a charitable hand.
"Damn!" whispered Benham, but he took the hand.
Afterwards, rather ignobly, he tried to explain in his public-school
French. "Pas de peur," he said. "Pas de peur. Mais la tete, n'a
pas l'habitude."
The peasant, failing to understand, assured him again that there was
no danger.
("Damn!")
Benham was led over all the other planks, he was led as if he was an
old lady crossing a glacier. He was led into absolute safety, and
shamefacedly he rewarded his guide. Then he went a little way and
sat down, swore softly, and watched the honest man go striding and
plunging down towards Lens until he was out of sight.
"Now," said Benham to himself, "if I do not go back along the planks
my secret honour is gone for ever."
He told himself that he had not a good head, that he was not well,
that the sun was setting and the light no longer good, that he had a
very good chance indeed of getting killed.
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