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.