He had worked
this game once before, years ago. He even thought of that time
now, as he lay upon his back. It had worked then, and it worked
now. The choking fingers at his throat loosened; the weight lifted
itself a little from his chest. The lone guard thought that he was
unconscious, and Jeanne, who had staggered to her feet, thought
that he was dead.
It was her cry, terrible, filled with agony and despair, that
urged him into action an instant too soon. His foe was still
partly on his guard, rising with a caution born of more than one
wilderness episode, when with a quick movement Philip closed with
him. Locked in a deadly grip, they rolled upon the ground; and,
with a feeling of despair which had never entered into his soul
before, the terrible truth came to Philip that the old strength
was gone from his arms and that with each added exertion he was
growing weaker. For a moment he saw Jeanne. She stood almost above
them, her hands clutched at her breast. And as he looked, she
suddenly turned and ran to the fire. An instant more and she was
back, a red-hot brand in her hand. Philip saw it flash close to
his eyes, felt the heat of it; and then a scream, animal-like in
its ferocity and pain, burst from the lips of his antagonist.
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