Nap was writhing to and fro like an eel, striving, she saw, to overthrow his adversary.  But the gigantic strength of madness was too great for his lithe activity.  By sheer weight he was borne down.

With an anguished cry Anne started to intervene.  But two steps with the skis flung her headlong upon the snow, and while she grovelled there, struggling vainly to rise, she heard the awful blows above her like pistol-shots through the stillness.  Once she heard a curse, and once a demonical laugh, and once, thrilling her through and through, spurring her to wilder efforts, a dreadful sound that was like the cry of a stricken animal.

She gained her feet at last, and again started on her upward way.  Nap had been forced to his knees, but he was still fighting fiercely, as a rat will fight to the last.  She cried to him wildly that she was coming, was coming, made three paces, only to trip and fall again.

Then she knew that, so handicapped, she could never reach them, and with shaking, fumbling fingers she set herself to unfasten the straps that bound the skis.  It took her a long, long time—­all the longer for her fevered haste.  And still that awful, flail-like sound went on and on, though all sound of voices had wholly ceased.

Free at last, she stumbled to her feet, and tore madly up the hill.  She saw as she went that Nap was not struggling any longer.  He was hanging like a wet rag from the merciless grip that upheld him, and though his limp body seemed to shudder at every crashing blow, he made no voluntary movement of any sort.

As she drew near, her husband suddenly swung round as though aware of her, and dropped him.  He fell in a huddled heap upon the snow, and lay, twisted, motionless as a dead thing.

Sir Giles, his eyes suffused and terrible, turned upon his wife.

“There lies your gallant lover!” he snarled at her.  “I think I’ve cured him of his fancy for you.”

Her eyes met his.  For a single instant, hatred, unveiled, passionate, shone out at him like sudden, darting lightning.  For a single instant she dared him with the courage born of hatred.  It was a challenge so distinct and personal, so fierce, that he, satiated for the moment with revenge, drew back instinctively before it, as an animal shrinks from the flame.

She uttered not a word.  She did not after that one scorching glance deign to do battle with him.  Without a gesture she dismissed him, kneeling beside his vanquished foe as though he were already gone.

And—­perhaps it was the utter intrepidity of her bearing that deprived him of the power to carry his brutality any further just then—­perhaps the ferocity that he had never before encountered in those grey eyes cowed him somewhat in spite of the madness that still sang in his veins—­whatever the motive power it was too potent to resist—­Sir Giles turned and tramped heavily away.