Nigel did not speak--his lips were tight shut, a thin red streak in the whiteness of his face. "Len ... stop!--you'll kill him!" cried Janet. She stood petrified, trembling from head to foot. Never in her whole life had she witnessed such a scene in the Furlonger family. The boys were fighting. She had seen them spar before, but never anything like this. And Nigel's drunkenness ... and his words to her ... a sickly, stifling horror crept up her throat and nearly choked her. "Len--stop!--he's had enough." "Not till he apologises--apologise, you damn brute!" Nigel's teeth were set. He struggled mechanically, Len had hold of his right wrist, and his left hand was bent under him. Suddenly, however, he managed to wrench them both free--the next minute he seized his brother's throat. For a moment or two they struggled desperately, Leonard half strangled, and in the end Nigel rolled off the table to the floor, where both young men lay together. Leonard was the first to rise. "Good Lord, Janey," he said weakly. "Nigel--he's dead." "Not he!" They both knelt down, and raised him a little. Blood began to run out of the corner of his mouth. "You've killed him!" cried Janey. "No--he's only bitten his tongue. Look"--lifting the corner of his brother's lip--"his teeth are locked like a vice." "Oh, all this has been too horrible!" "Run and fetch some water--we'll bring him to in a minute." She filled a jug at the tap, and together they bathed Nigel's forehead and neck. Len's rage had entirely cooled, and he handled his unconscious brother almost tenderly. At last the boy opened his eyes. To the surprise of both Len and Janet his first glance was quite mild. "Oh ..." he said weakly. Then suddenly remembrance seemed to come. He shook off his brother's hand, scowled at Janey, and struggled to his feet. "I'm going to bed," he muttered, leaning unsteadily against the table. "You mustn't stand," said Janet, trying to soothe him, "come and sit here for a minute, and then Len shall help you up to bed." "I don't want Len, damn him!" He staggered towards the door. "Len--go after him." "Not if I know it." "He'll never get upstairs without you." "He's much better alone." They heard Nigel slipping and stumbling on the stairs. Once he fell with a crash, but at last he reached the top. Luckily his door was open, and he lurched in. The next minute they heard a thud and a creak as he flung himself on the bed. He woke at dawn from what seemed an eternity of sleep--not one of those swift, deep sleeps which we are unconscious of till we find their healing touch on our lids at waking, but a series of sleeps, heavy, yet tossed, continually broken by grey glimmers of consciousness, by sudden heats and pains, quick stabs of memory, blind spaces of forgetfulness--that feverish, aching forgetfulness, which is memory in its acutest form.