They seemed to be of iron. Arthur
seized the huge bullock throat and dug his fingers into it, and they sunk
into the heavy rolls of fat; and he flung the whole weight of his body
into them. He exulted, for he knew that his enemy was in his power at
last; he was strangling him, strangling the life out of him. He wanted
light so that he might see the horror of that vast face, and the deadly
fear, and the staring eyes. And still he pressed with those iron hands.
And now the movements were strangely convulsive. His victim writhed in
the agony of death. His struggles were desperate, but the avenging hands
held him as in a vice. And then the movements grew spasmodic, and then
they grew weaker. Still the hands pressed upon the gigantic throat, and
Arthur forgot everything. He was mad with rage and fury and hate and
sorrow. He thought of Margaret's anguish and of her fiendish torture, and
he wished the man had ten lives so that he might take them one by one.
And at last all was still, and that vast mass of flesh was motionless,
and he knew that his enemy was dead.
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