ubled and
tripled in the fury of her madness--Wilbur knew that, however easily he
had overcome his enemy of a moment before, he was now fighting for his
very life.

At first, Wilbur merely struggled to keep her from him--to prevent her
using her dirk. He tried not to hurt her. But what with the spirits
he had drunk before the attack, what with the excitement of the attack
itself and the sudden unleashing of the brute in him an instant before,
the whole affair grew dim and hazy in his mind. He ceased to see things
in their proportion. His new-found strength gloried in matching itself
with another strength that was its equal. He fought with Moran--not as
he would fight with either woman or man, or with anything human, for the
matter of that. He fought with her as against some impersonal force that
it was incumbent upon him to conquer--that it was imperative he should
conquer if he wished to live. When she struck, he struck blow for blow,
force for force, his strength against hers, glorying in that strange
contest, though he never once forgot that this last enemy was the
girl he loved. It was not Moran whom he fought; it was her force, her
determination, her will, her splendid independence, that he set himself
to conquer.

Already she had dropped or flung away the dirk, and their battle had
become an issue of sheer physical strength between them. It was a
question now as to who should master the other. Twice she had fought
Wilbur to his knees, the heel of her hand upon his face, his head thrust
back between his shoulders, and twice he had wrenched away, rising to
his feet again, panting, bleeding even, but with his teeth set and
all his resolution at the sticking-point. Once he saw his chance, and
planted his knuckles squarely between her eyes where her frown was
knotted hard, hoping to stun her and end the fight once and for all. But
the blow did not seem to affect her in the least. By this time he saw
that her Berserker rage had worked itself clear as fermenting wine
clears itself, and that she knew now with whom she was fighting; and he
seemed now to understand the incomprehensible, and to sympathize with
her joy in measuring her strength against his; and yet he knew that the
combat was deadly serious, and that more than life was at stake. Moran
despised a weakling.

For an instant, as they fell apart, she stood off, breathing hard and
rolling up her sleeve; then, as she started forward again, Wilbur met
her half-wa