give that murderous right hand its freedom!
In spite of the brutal clutch that is dragging the hair it has captured
from the living scalp--in spite of the brutal foot below kicking hard to
reach and break a bone--cling hard to it! And if, power failing you
against its wicked strength, it should get free, be you the first to
meet its weapon, even though the penalty be death." That was her
thought, for what had Mo done that he should suffer by this man--this
nightmare for whose obsession of her own life she had herself alone to
blame?

The struggle was not a long one. Before Mo, whose weak point was his
speed, had covered half the intervening distance, a kick of the
convict's heavy boot-heel, steel-shod, had found its bone, and broken
it, just above the ankle. The shock was irresistible, and the check on
the knife-hand perforce flagged for an instant--long enough to leave it
free. Another blow followed, a strange one that M'riar could not
localise, and then all the Court swam about, and vanished.

What Mo saw by the light of the lamp above as he turned out of
Ragstroar's front-gate was M'riar, dressing-gowned and dishevelled,
clinging madly to the man he could recognise as her convict husband. He
heard her cry about the knife, saw that her hold relaxed, saw the blade
flash as it struck back at her. He saw her fall, and believed the blow a
mortal one. He heard the voice of Dolly wailing in the house beyond,
crying out for the missing bedfellow she would never dream beside again.
At least, that was his thought. And there before him was her slayer,
with his wife's blood fresh upon his hands.

All the anger man can feel against the crimes of man blazed in his
heart, all the resolution he can summon to avenge them knit the muscles
of his face and set closer the grip upon his lip. And yet, had he been
asked what was his strongest feeling at this moment, he would have
answered:--"Fear!"--fear, that is, that his man, more active than
himself and younger, should give him the slip, to right or to left, and
get away unharmed.

But that was not the convict's thought, with that knife open in his
hand. Indeed, the small space at command might have thwarted him. If,
for but two seconds, he could employ those powerful fists that were on
the watch for him on either side of the formidable bulk whose slow
movement was his only hope, then he might pass and be safe. It would
have to be quick work, with young Ikey despatched by the screami