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The warm light of the sinking sun
shone upon the horse and upon Benham's erect figure and upon his
face, and gleams of fire kept flashing from his head to this rim,
like the gleam of drawn swords seen from afar. As he drew nearer
this halo detached itself from him and became a wheel sticking up
behind him. A large, clumsy-looking bicycle was attached to the
dog-cart behind. The expression of Benham's golden face was still a
stony expression; he regarded his friend with hard eyes.
"You all right, Benham?" cried Prothero, advancing into the road.
His eye examined the horse. It looked all right, if anything it was
a trifle subdued; there was a little foam about its mouth, but not
very much.
"Whoa!" said Benham, and the horse stopped. "Are you coming up,
Prothero?"
Prothero clambered up beside him. "I was anxious," he said.
"There was no need to be."
"You've broken your whip."
"Yes. It broke. . . . GET up!"
They proceeded on their way to Cambridge.
"Something has happened to the wheel," said Prothero, trying to be
at his ease.


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