straining breath was continuous, the ripping of coarse cloth an occasional interruption; but from the first, a spectator could not but have foreseen the end.  The elder man was fighting in self-defence:  the younger, he of the massive protruding jaw—­a jaw now so prominent as to be a positive disfigurement—­in unappeasable ferocity.  Against him in that hour a very giant could not have held his own.  Merely a glimpse of his face inspired terror.  Again and again as they struggled his hand had clutched at the other’s throat, but only to have his hold broken.  At last, however, his adversary was weakening under the strain.  Blind terror began to grip Tom Blair.  At first a mere suggestion, then a horrible certainty, possessed him as to the identity of the relentless being who opposed him.  Again the other’s hand, like the creeping tentacle of an octopus, sought his throat, would not be stayed.  He struggled with all his might against it, until it seemed the blood-vessels of his neck would burst, but still the hold tightened.  He clutched at the long fingers desperately, bit at them, felt his breath coming hard.  Freeing his own hand, he smashed with his fist again and again into that long thin face so near his own, knew that another tentacle had joined with the first, felt the impossibility of drawing air into his lungs, realized that consciousness was deserting him, saw the sun over him like a mocking face—­then knew no more.

CHAPTER XV

IN THE GRIP OF THE LAW

How long Tom Blair was unconscious he did not know.  When he awoke he could scarcely believe his own senses; and he looked about him dazedly.  The sun was shining down as brightly as before.  The snow was as white.  He had for some reason been spared, after all, and hope arose in his breast.  He began to look around him.  Not two rods away, his face clearly in sight, his eyes closed, dead asleep, lay the figure of the man who had waylaid him.  For a moment he looked at the figure steadily; then, in distinct animal cunning, the lids of the close-set eyes tightened.  Stealthily, almost holding his breath, he started to rise, then fell back with a jerk.  For the first time he realized that he was bound hand and foot, so he could scarcely stir.  He struggled, at first cautiously, then desperately, to be free; but the straps which bound him, those which had held his own blanket, only cut the deeper; and he gave it up.  Flat on his back he lay watching the sleeper, his anger increasing.  Again his eyes tightened.

“Wake up, curse you!” he yelled suddenly.

No answer, only the steady rise and fall of the sleeper’s chest.

“Wake up, I say!” repeated the voice, in a tone to raise the dead.

This time there was response—­of action.  Slowly Ben Blair roused, and got up.  A moment he looked about him; then, tearing a strip off his blanket, he walked over, and, against the other’s protests and promises of silence, forced open the bearded lips, as though giving a horse the bit, and tied a gag full in the cursing mouth.  Without a word or a superfluous look he returned and lay down.  Another minute, and the regular breathing showed he was again asleep.