Page:The Gates of Morning - Henry De Vere Stacpoole.pdf/150

 Up above Kanoa, standing by the opening of the hatch, listening. The reef spoke and the water trickled on the planking, but from below there came no sound. Moments passed and then, sharp and cutting the silence like a knife came a cry, a shout, and the sound of a furious struggle. Then, fear flown and filled with a fury new as life to the newborn, Kanoa plunged down into the darkness, missed his footing, fell, rose half stunned and dashed into the cabin.

Carlin, naked, was lying on his face on the floor, dead or dying; Rantan, naked, was at death grips with Le Moan. She had risen by a supreme effort, but he had got her against the table, flung her on it and was now holding her down, his knee on her thigh, his hands on her throat, his head flung back, the flexor muscles of his forearms rigid, crushing her, breaking her, choking the life out of her, till Kanoa sprang.

Sprang like a tiger, lighting on the table and then in a flash on to Rantan’s back, breaking his grip with the impact and freeing Le Moan. He had got the throat hold from behind, his knees had seized Rantan’s body and he was riding him like a horse. The attacked man, whooping and choking, tried to hit backwards, flung up his arms, rose straight, tottered and crashed, but still the attacker clung, clung as they rolled on the floor, clung till all movement ceased.

It was over.

The silver butterfly still danced merrily on the ceil-