Remembrance had come with a spasm of that ghastly face. Leonard sat up in the grass, and held his hands to his head.
"I'm ill, I think," he muttered.
He must have fainted—fainted through the stress and horror of it all, just when his enemy's breath had nearly sobbed away under his hands.
"You'd better go home," said Quentin.
Leonard did not speak. He still sat there in a piteous huddle—and then suddenly tremor after tremor began to go through him. He shuddered from head to foot, his teeth chattered, and his limbs shook so that he could not rise.
"I want some water—I want something to drink," he panted.
Quentin put his hands under his shoulders to help him get up. He felt quite generously towards him now. He had been snatched by a timely accident from death, and could afford to pity this poor fellow who had tried to kill him, but failed.
"Let me help you home."
"No—by God!"
"Let me—you're ill."