Istruckthedoorofthestate—roomwhichhadformerlybeenMugridge’s，splinteringandsmashingthepanelswiththeimpactofmybody。Istruggledtomyfeet，withdifficultydraggingmyselfclearofthewreckeddoor，unawareofanyhurtwhatever。Iwasconsciousonlyofanovermasteringrage。IthinkI，too，criedaloud，asIdrewtheknifeatmyhipandsprangforwardasecondtime。
Butsomethinghadhappened。Theywerereelingapart。Iwascloseuponhim，myknifeuplifted，butIwithheldtheblow。Iwaspuzzledbythestrangenessofit。Maudwasleaningagainstthewall，onehandoutforsupport；buthewasstaggering，hislefthandpressedagainsthisforeheadandcoveringhiseyes，andwiththerighthewasgropingabouthiminadazedsortofway。Itstruckagainstthewall，andhisbodyseemedtoexpressamuscularandphysicalreliefatthecontact，asthoughhehadfoundhisbearings，hislocationinspaceaswellassomethingagainstwhichtolean。
ThenIsawredagain。Allmywrongsandhumiliationsflasheduponmewithadazzlingbrightness，allthatIhadsufferedandothershadsufferedathishands，alltheenormityoftheman’sveryexistence。Ispranguponhim，blindly，insanely，anddrovetheknifeintohisshoulder。Iknew，then，thatitwasnomorethanafleshwound，——hadfeltthesteelgrateonhisshoulder—blade，——andIraisedtheknifetostrikeatamorevitalpart。
ButMaudhadseenmyfirstblow，andshecried，\"Don’t！Pleasedon’t！\"
Idroppedmyarmforamoment，andamomentonly。Againtheknifewasraised，andWolfLarsenwouldhavesurelydiedhadshenotsteppedbetween。