They were fighting for life, silently, desperately, like wild beasts, with no thought but to injure the other.
The gambler's teeth sank into Keith's arm, and the latter in return jammed the man's head back onto the puncheon floor viciously.
Perspiration streamed from their bodies, their fingers clutching, their limbs wrapped together, their muscles strained to the utmost.

Keith had forgotten the girl, the negro, everything, dominated by the one passion to conquer.

He was swept by a storm of hatred, a desire to kill.

In their fierce struggle the two had rolled close to the fireplace, and in the dull glow of the dying embers, he could perceive a faint outline of the man's face.

The sight added flame to his mad passion, yet he could do nothing except to cling to him, jabbing his fingers into the straining throat.
The negro ended the affair in his own way, clawing blindly at the combatants in the darkness, and finally, determining which was the enemy, he struck the gambler with the stock of his gun, laying him out unconscious.