CHAPTER XXIII
WORDS OF LOVE
In spite of the fact that he was armed the advantage was all with me. His grip on the girl dragged her to the ground with him, but she rolled aside as we grappled like two wild beasts, my fingers at his throat. I knew the strength of the man, but my first blow had sent his brain reeling, while the surprise of my unexpected assault gave me the grip sought. He struggled to one knee, wrenching his arms free, but went down again as my fist cracked against his jaw. Then it was arm to arm, muscle to muscle, every sinew strained as we clung to each other, striving for mastery. He fought like a fiend, gouging and snapping to make me break my hold, but I only clung the closer, twisting one hand free, and driving my fist into his face. At last I gripped his pistol, wrenched it forth, and struck with the butt. He sank back, limp and breathless, and I rose to my knees looking down into the upturned face. Almost at the moment her hand touched my shoulder.
"Is he dead? Have you killed him?"
"Far from it," I answered gladly. "He is merely stunned, and will revive presently, but with a sad headache. I would not have hit him, but he is a stronger man than I."
"Oh, you were justified. It was done to protect me. I knew you must be somewhere near."
"You were waiting for me?"
"Yes—no; not exactly that. I was in the summer house; I did not mean you should see me, but I wished to be sure of your escape; I—I—of course I was anxious."
"I can easily understand that, for you have assumed much risk—even ventured the life of the devoted Peter."