table, struggling vainly to keep my feet. It went over with a crash, bearing us both along, old Ned atop, clutching fiercely to keep his hold, his eyes blazing madly down into mine. As we struck I wrenched my hand free, and pulled the trigger. The shot seemed to blaze across my own breast, burning like fire, and, the next instant, the man's knee crushed my wrist to the floor, and the revolver fell from my benumbed fingers.
I seem to recall little of what followed; only a confused recollection of desperate struggling amid the legs of the overturned table; of oaths, blows; of eyes glaring revengefully into mine. I could not break his death grip on my throat, nor throw off the weight of his big body. I did get my hands free, and one leg curved under me. With this as a lever I twisted partly aside, driving my fist twice into the fellow's face, and twining fingers into his coarse hair. But I could not breathe; he was choking the life out of me; everything grew red—I saw the girl's frightened face through a red haze, which turned black almost at the instant. I was blind, and fought blindly. I seemed to lose all knowledge, all consciousness, under the merciless throttling of those hard fingers. Then suddenly they relaxed—I caught a quick, reviving breath, another. Every nerve in me throbbed; I could see again, hear, feel.
