He was still feeling decidedly
shaky himself, but Piers' collapse was an admirable restorative. He stood
by, vigilant and resolute, while the brandy did its work.
Piers drank in silence, not looking at him. All the arrogance had gone
out of him. He looked broken and unmanned.
"Better?" asked Tudor at length.
He nodded mutely, and set down the glass.
Tudor surveyed him questioningly. "What happened to you?" he asked
finally.
"Nothing!" Piers found his voice at last, it was low and shamed. "Nothing
whatever! You--you--my God!--I thought you were dead, that's all."
"That all?" said Tudor. He put his hand up to his temple. There was a
fair-sized lump there already, and it was swelling rapidly.
Piers nodded again. The deathly pallor had gone from his face, but he
still avoided Tudor's eyes. He spoke again, below his breath, as if more
to himself than to Tudor.
"You looked so horribly like--like--a man I once--saw killed."
"If you are wise, you will go home to bed," said Tudor gruffly.
Piers flashed a swift look at him. He stood hesitating. "You're not
really hurt?" he questioned, after a moment.
"Thank you," said Tudor drily, "I am not."
He made no movement of reconciliation. Perhaps it was hardly to be
expected of him. Piers made none either. He turned away in silence.
The clock on the mantelpiece chimed the hour.
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