The Power And The Glory by Gilbert Parker

That night late, La Salle was walking to his apartments. The street was narrow, deserted, and unlighted, though a faint moon was showing. He had spent the evening with the Abbé Renaudot after visiting the Prince de Conti, where with La Forest and Francois Plet he had made a convincing statement to Conti. He had been told of the visit of Lya Darois to King Louis and of her triumph there, and somehow hope, faith, and a new ambition stirred deeply in him.

With a spring in his step he neared his apartments. At about fifteen feet from the door, with the instinct of the trained woodsman, he felt stealthy steps behind him and swung round. As he did so a lariat flew over his head and would have garroted him, but his hand shot up to the leathern ropes. Then two men sprang towards him. With one swift, prodigious kick he struck one of his assailants well below the belt, and with a shriek of pain, the man fell backwards and writhed on the ground, and the other he caught by the throat. The struggle was fierce, for the man was strong and a trained murderer, but La Salle had the gifts of an Indian fighter, and he freed the rope from the hand of the garroter, swung him to the ground, and buried powerful fingers in his throat. The murderer's tongue came out of his mouth, his face turned purple, his struggle became fiercer, and then suddenly relaxed, and he was gone. La Salle sprang to the other man, whose agony was still great, and said: "Tell me who sent you, or you shall die also. Speak--my hands are at your throat!"