Tudor's temper, once thoroughly roused, was as fierce as any man's, and though his knowledge of the science of fighting was wholly elementary, he made a desperate resistance.

It lasted for possibly thirty seconds, and then he found himself flung violently backwards across the table and pinned there, with Piers' hands gripping his throat, and Piers' eyes, grim and murderous, glaring down into his own.
"Be still!" ordered Piers, his voice no more than a whisper.

"Or I'll kill you--by Heaven, I will!" Tudor was utterly powerless in that relentless grip.

His heart was pumping with great hammer-strokes; his breathing came laboured between those merciless hands.

His own hands were closed upon the iron wrists, but their hold was weakening moment by moment, he knew their grasp to be wholly ineffectual.