He had barely time to fling up one arm in the warding off of a
blow. The next instant was one of mad, desperate struggle, in which he
realised only that he dare not relax his grip on the wrist of his
unknown antagonist. It was a fierce, intense grapple, every muscle
strained to the utmost, silent except for the stamping of feet, deadly
in purpose.
The knife fell from the cramped fingers, but the fellow struggled like
a demon, clutching at the miner's throat, but unable to confine his
arms. Twice Westcott drove his clenched right into the shadowed face,
smashing it the last time so hard the man's grip relaxed, and he went
staggering back. With a leap forward, the battle-fury on him, Westcott
closed before the other could regain position. Again the clenched fist
struck and the fellow went down in the darkness, whirling backward to
the earth--and lay there, motionless.
An instant, panting, breathless, scarcely yet comprehending what had
occurred, the victor stared at the huddled figure, his arm drawn back.
Then he became aware of excitement within, the sound of voices, the
tramp of feet on the floor, the sudden opening of a door.
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