“Hush,” said Lydia, as if his words were intolerable.
Cashel did not vault over the ropes. He stepped through them languidly, and, rejecting the proffered assistance of a couple of officious friends, drew on a boxing-glove fastidiously, like an exquisite preparing for a fashionable promenade. Having thus muffled his left hand so as to make it useless for the same service to his right, he dipped his fingers into the other glove, gripped it between his teeth, and dragged it on with the action of a tiger tearing its prey. Lydia shuddered again.
“Bob Mellish,” said Skene, “I’ll lay you twenty to one he stops that rush that you think so much of. Come: twenty to one!”
Mellish shook his head. Then the master of the ceremonies, pointing to the men in succession, shouted, “Paradise: a professor. Cashel Byron: a professor. Time!”
Cashel now looked at Paradise, of whose existence he had not before seemed to be aware. The two men advanced towards the centre of the ring, shook hands at arm’s-length, cast off each other’s grasp suddenly, fell back a step, and began to move warily round one another from left to right like a pair of panthers.
“I think they might learn manners from the gentlemen, and shake hands cordially,” said Alice, trying to appear unconcerned, but oppressed by a vague dread of Cashel.
“That’s the traditional manner,” said Lord Worthington. “It is done that way to prevent one from holding the other; pulling him over, and hitting him with the disengaged hand before he could get loose.”
“What abominable treachery!” exclaimed Lydia.
“It’s never done, you know,” said Lord Worthington, apologetically. “Only it might be.”
Lydia turned away from him, and gave all her attention to the boxers. Of the two, Paradise shocked her least. He was evidently nervous and conscious of a screwed-up condition as to his courage; but his sly grin implied a wild sort of goodhumor, and seemed to promise the spectators that he would show them some fun presently. Cashel watched his movements with a relentless vigilance and a sidelong glance in which, to Lydia’s apprehension, there was something infernal.
Suddenly the eyes of Paradise lit up: he lowered his head, made a rush, balked himself purposely, and darted at Cashel. There was a sound like the pop of a champagne-cork, after which Cashel was seen undisturbed in the middle of the ring, and Paradise, flung against the ropes and trying to grin at his discomfiture, showed his white teeth through a mask of blood.
“Beautiful!” cried Skene with emotion. “Beautiful! There ain’t but me and my boy in the world can give the upper cut like that! I wish I could see my old missis’s face now! This is nuts to her.”
“Let us go away,” said Alice.
“That was a very different blow to any that the gentlemen gave,” said Lydia, without heeding her, to Lord Worthington. “The man is bleeding horribly.”
“It’s only his nose,” said Lord Worthington. “He’s used to it.”
Meanwhile Cashel had followed Paradise to the ropes.
“Now he has him,” chuckled Skene. “My boy’s got him agin the ropes; and he means to keep him there. Let him rush now, if he can. See what it is to have a good judgment.”
Mellish shook his head again despondently. The remaining minutes of the round were unhappy ones for Paradise. He struck viciously at his opponent’s ribs; but Cashel stepped back just out of his reach, and then returned with extraordinary swiftness and dealt him blows from which, with the ropes behind him, he had no room to retreat, and which he was too slow to stop or avoid. His attempts to reach his enemy’s face were greatly to the disadvantage of his own; for Cashel’s blows were never so tremendous as when he turned his head deftly out of harm’s way, and met his advancing foe with a counter hit. He showed no chivalry and no mercy, and revelled in the hardness of his hitting; his gloves either resounding on Paradise’s face or seeming to go almost through his body. There was little semblance to a contest: to Lydia there was nothing discernible but a cruel assault by an irresistible athlete on a helpless victim. The better sort among the spectators were disgusted by the sight; for, as Paradise bled profusely, and as his blood besmeared the gloves and the gloves besmeared the heads and bodies of both combatants, they were soon stained with it from their waists upward. The managers held a whispered consultation as to whether the sparring exhibition had not better be stopped; but they decided to let it proceed on seeing the African king, who had watched the whole entertainment up to the present without displaying the least interest, now raise his hands and clap them with delight.
“Billy don’t look half pleased with hisself,” observed Mellish, as the two boxers sat down. “He looks just like he did when he spiked Shepstone.”
“What does spiking mean?” said Lydia.
“Treading on a man’s foot with spiked boots,” replied Lord Worthington. “Don’t be alarmed; they have no spikes in their shoes to-day. It is not my fault that they do such things, Miss Carew. Really, you make me feel quite criminal when you look at me in that way.”
Time was now called; and the pugilists, who had, by dint of sponging, been made somewhat cleaner, rose with mechanical promptitude at the sound, Cashel had hardly advanced two steps when, though his adversary seemed far out of his reach, he struck him on the forehead with such force as to stagger him, and then jumped back laughing. Paradise rushed forward; but Cashel eluded him, and fled round the ring, looking back derisively over his shoulder. Paradise now dropped all pretence of goodhumor. With an expression of reckless ferocity, he dashed at Cashel; endured a startling blow without flinching, and engaged him at close quarters. For a moment the falling of their blows reminded Lydia of the rush of raindrops against a pane in a sudden gust of wind. The next moment Cashel was away; and Paradise, whose blood was again flowing, was trying to repeat his manoeuvre, to be met this time by a blow that brought him upon one knee. He had scarcely risen when Cashel sprang at him; dealt him four blows with dazzling rapidity; drove him once more against the ropes; but this time, instead of keeping him there, ran away in the manner of a child at play. Paradise, with foam as well as blood at his lips, uttered a howl, and tore off his gloves. There was a shout of protest from the audience; and Cashel, warned by it, tried to get off his gloves in turn. But Paradise was upon him before he could accomplish this, and the two men laid hold of one another amid a great clamor, Lord Worthington and others rising and excitedly shouting, “Against the rules! No wrestling!” followed by a roar of indignation as Paradise was seen to seize Cashel’s shoulder in his teeth as they struggled for the throw. Lydia, for the first time in her life, screamed. Then she saw Cashel, his face fully as fierce as Paradise’s, get his arm about his neck; lift him as a coal-heaver lifts a sack, and fling him over his back, heels over head, to the ground, where he instantly dropped on him with his utmost weight and impetus. The two were at once separated by a crowd of managers, umpires, policemen, and others who had rushed towards the ring when Paradise had taken off his gloves. A distracting wrangle followed. Skene had climbed over the palisade, and was hurling oaths, threats, and epithets at Paradise, who, unable to stand without assistance, was trying to lift his leaden eyelids and realize what had happened to him. A dozen others were trying to bring him to his senses, remonstrating with him on his conduct, or trying to pacify Skene. Cashel, on the other side, raged at the managers, who were reminding him that the rules of glove-fighting did not allow wrestling and throwing.
“Rules be d — d,” Lydia heard him shouting. “He bit me; and I’ll throw him to—” Then everybody spoke at once; and she could only conjecture where he would throw him to. He seemed to have no selfcontrol: Paradise, when he came to himself, behaved better. Lord Worthington descended into the ring and tried to calm the hubbub; but Cashel shook his hand fiercely from his arm; menaced a manager who attempted to call him sternly to order; frantically pounded his wounded shoulder with his clenched fist, and so outswore and outwrangled them all, that even Skene began to urge that there had been enough fuss made. Then Lord Worthington whispered a word more; and Cashel suddenly subsided, pale and ashamed, and sat down on a chair in his