were to seize you suddenly by the throat, at first gently, as if caressing you, and then firmly, and strangle you, what would that be?"
"You are talking nonsense. Nobody does such things"
My brother rubbed his cold hands, smiled softly, and continued:
"When you were away there were nights when I did not sleep, could not sleep, and strange ideas entered my head—to take a hatchet, for instance, and go and kill everybody—mother, sister, the servants, our dog. Of course they were only fancies, and I would never do so."
"I should hope not," smiled I, splashing about.
"Then again, I am afraid of knives, of all that is sharp and shining; it seems to me that if I were to take up a knife I should certainly kill somebody with it. Now, is it not true—why should I not plunge it into somebody, if it were sharp enough?"
"The argument is sufficient. What a queer fellow you are brother! Just open the hot-water tap."
My brother opened the tap, let in some hot water, and continued:
"Then, again, I am afraid of crowds—of men, when many of them gather together. When of an evening I hear a noise in the street—a loud shout, for instance—I start and believe that . . . a massacre has begun. When several men stand together, and I cannot hear what they are talking about, it seems to me that they will suddenly cry out, fall upon each other, and blood will flow. And you know"—he bent mysteriously towards my ear—"the
