They had knocked over the chairs and were staggering against the table.
From the corner by the fireplace Claire watched them in an agony of dread. It was indeed her time of test.
She saw Lawrence's hand clutching at the flesh of Philip's cheek. They were panting like two beasts. It was the primitive battle of males for the female of their choice.
Philip's hand was torn free from Lawrence's throat. The blind man laughed as his lungs filled with air. She heard him mutter between clenched teeth: "By God, I'll spoil your advantage."
They were struggling again for throat holds.
Lawrence was protecting his own, but the hand he had wrenched free closed around his arm, bending it back slowly, irresistibly toward the point where it must break. She screamed and covered her eyes for a second at what her lover was doing—she saw him deliberately gouge at Philip's eyes with his thumb held hard.
She heard both men fall, and looked again in spite of herself. They were on the floor writhing, their bodies against each other, clawing, striking, digging, and biting like two wild gorillas.
Now Lawrence was on top, now underneath, but she could not help but see that Philip was slowly gaining. Though badly injured in one eye, he still fought on unhesitatingly, forcing Lawrence nearer and nearer to death. The artist was even now ceasing to resist, his struggle had become spasmodic. Her lover was being choked to death. She sprang to her feet.
"Lawrence!" she screamed. "Lawrence!"
He was being killed in a battle for the possession of her. Could she stand still and see the man she loved murdered? Her hair fell about her shoulders in a mass. She swept it back from her face, looked frantically around her, then rushed to the wall-cupboard on the other side of the cabin and drew out a long meat-knife.