He used his fists, and his fists alone. He was like
a dancing man. And suddenly, in the midst of the miracle, they saw
Jacques Dupont go down. And the second miracle was that Reese Beaudin did
not leap on him when he had fallen. He stood back a little, balancing
himself in that queer fashion on the balls and toes of his feet. But no
sooner was Dupont up than Reese Beaudin was in again, with the swiftness
of a cat, and they could hear the blows, like solid shots, and Dupont's
arms waved like tree-tops, and a second time he was off the platform.
He was staggering when he rose. The blood ran in streams from his mouth
and nose. His beard dripped with it. His yellow teeth were caved in.
This time he did not leap upon the platform--he clambered back to it, and
the hooded stranger gave him a lift which a few minutes before Dupont
would have resented as an insult.
"Ah, it has come," said the stranger to Delesse.
"He is the best close-in fighter in all--"
He did not finish.
"I could kill you now--kill you with a single blow," said Reese Beaudin
in a moment when the giant stood swaying. "But there is a greater
punishment in store for you, and so I shall let you live!"
And now Reese Beaudin was facing that part of the crowd where the woman
he loved was standing. He was breathing deeply. But he was not winded.
His eyes were black as night, his hair wind-blown. He looked straight
over the heads between him and she whom Dupont had stolen from him.
Pages:
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88