Beth Norvell

Burke knew better than to attempt running; three steps in the midst of

such blinding darkness would have dashed him against unyielding rock.

Instantly, his teeth gripped like those of a bulldog, he clutched at

Winston's throat, trusting to his great strength for victory.

Instinctively, as one without knowing why closes the eyes to avoid

injury, the engineer dodged sideways, Burke's gripping fingers missed

their chosen mark, and the two men went crashing down together in

desperate struggle.

His revolver knocked from his grasp in the first impetus of assault,

his cheek bleeding from forcible contact with a rock edge, Winston

fought in silent ferocity, one hand holding back the Irishman's

searching fingers, the other firmly twisting itself into the soft

collar of his antagonist's shirt. Twice Burke struck out heavily,

driving his clinched fist into the other's body, unable to reach the

protected face; then Winston succeeded in getting one groping foot

braced firmly against a surface of rock, and whirled the surprised

miner over upon his back with a degree of violence that caused his

breath to burst forth in a great sob. A desperate struggle ensued, mad

and merciless--arms gripping, bodies straining, feet rasping along the

loose stones, muttered curses, the dull impact of blows. Neither could

see the other, neither could feel assured his antagonist possessed no

weapon; yet both fought furiously,--Burke enraged and merciless,

Winston intoxicated with the lust of fight. Twice they reversed

positions, the quickness of the one fairly offsetting the burly

strength of the other, their sinews straining, the hot breath hissing

between set teeth. Pain was unfelt, mercy unknown.

In the midst of the blind mêlée, following some savage instinct,

Winston clinched his fingers desperately in the Irishman's hair, and

began jamming him back against the irregularities of the rock floor.

Suddenly Burke went limp, and the engineer, panting painfully, lay

outstretched upon him, his whole body quivering, barely conscious that

he had gained the victory. The miner did not move, apparently he had

ceased breathing, and Winston, shrinking away from contact with the

motionless body, grasped a rock support and hauled himself to his feet.

The intense blackness all about dazed him; he retained no sense of

direction, scarcely any memory of where he was. His body, bruised and

strained, pained him severely; his head throbbed as from fever. Little

by little the exhausted breath came back, and with it a slow

realization of his situation. Had he killed Burke? He stared down

toward the spot where he knew the body lay, but could perceive nothing.

The mystery of the dark suddenly unnerved him; he could feel his hands

tremble violently as he groped cautiously along the smooth surface of

the rock. He experienced a shrinking, nervous dread of coming into

contact with that man lying there beneath the black mantle, that

hideous, silent form, perhaps done to death by his hands. It was a

revolt of the soul. A moment he actually thought he was losing his

mind, feverish fancies playing grim tricks before his strained,

agonized vision, imagination peopling the black void with a riot of

grotesque figures.