The fears bred of imagination had now left him; he was restored by the
shock of an actual danger. He leaned forward quietly and felt if the key
was still in the lock. But there was no lock to this door. Wogan felt
the surface of the door; it was of paper. It was plainly the door of a
cupboard in the wall, papered after the same pattern as the wall, which
by the flickering light of his single candle he had overlooked.
He opened the door and stretched out his arms into the cupboard. He
touched something that moved beneath his hand, a stiff, short crop of
hair, the hair of a man's head. He drew his arm away as though an adder
had stung it; he did not utter a cry or make a movement. He stood for a
moment paralysed, and during that moment a strong hand caught him by the
throat.
Wogan was borne backwards, his assailant sprang at him from the
cupboard, he staggered under the unexpected vigour of the attack, he
clutched his enemy, and the two men came to the ground with a crash.
Even as he fell Wogan thought, "Gaydon would never have overlooked that
cupboard."
It was the only reflection, however, for which he could afford time. He
was undermost, and the hand at his throat had the grip of a steel glove.
He fought with blows from his fists and his bent knees; he twisted his
legs about the legs of his enemy; he writhed his body if so he might
dislodge him; he grappled wildly for his throat. But all the time his
strength grew less; he felt that his temples were swelling, and it
seemed to him that his eyes must burst. The darkness of the room was
spotted with sparks of fire; the air was filled with a continuous roar
like a million chariots in a street. He saw the face of his chosen
woman, most reproachful and yet kind, gazing at him from behind the bars
which now would never be broken, and then there came a loud banging at
the door. The summons surprised them both, so hotly had they been
engaged, so unaware were they of the noise which their fall had made.
Wogan felt his assailant's hand relax and heard him say in a low muffled
voice, "It is nothing. Go to bed! I fell over a chair in the dark."
That momentary relaxation was, he knew, his last chance. He gathered his
strength in a supreme effort, lurched over onto his left side, and
getting his right arm free swung it with all his strength in the
direction of the voice. His clenched fist caught his opponent full under
the point of the chin, and the hand at Wogan's throat clutched once and
fell away limp as an empty glove. Wogan sat up on the floor and drew his
breath. That, after all, was more than his antagonist was doing. The
knocking at the door continued; Wogan could not answer it, he had not
the strength. His limbs were shaking, the sweat clotted his hair and
dripped from his face. But his opponent was quieter still. At last he
managed to gather his legs beneath him, to kneel up, to stand shakily
upon his feet. He could no longer mistake the position of the door; he
tottered across to it, removed the chair, and opened it.