MY LADY OF THE SOUTH
hung dangling over his shoulders. With teeth set, crouching for a spring at his throat, I waited, until he planted both feet on the floor, his head turned away, peering into the blackness of the rear hallway. The next instant I had him, my left arm under his chin, my right hand binding his cloak about him so tightly he could not lift an arm.
It was a garroter's grip, and I could have broken his neck had he not yielded instantly to the fierce pressure. We went down together, crashing against the lower stair, but I fell on top, confident of victory, my knee crushing his chest, my hand grasping his throat. A moment I thought him unconscious, stunned by the hard fall; then I knew I was in the grasp of a giant, fighting for my life. I clung to him madly, not daring to release my grip even long enough to grasp at a revolver, every muscle exerted, straining my utmost to hold him down. There were few tricks I did not know in the wrestler's game, but this man's strength offset them all. Inch by inch he forced me back, his grip fairly digging into my flesh, his arms pressing about me like iron bars. There were no blows struck, no words spoken—just the heavy breathing of desperate fight; the scuffling of bodies; the sheer strain of muscles exercised to their uttermost. I had the advantage of posture, he of strength, but, at last, he got me, his arms crushing me as if I were in the grasp of a bear, tearing my fingers from his throat, and forcing my body over against the wall, and my head to the floor. Never before, or since, did I struggle with greater desperation; once I gripped my gun, only to have my fingers
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