For answer, I smote him on the cheek, lightly, and not to hurt him: but
to make his blood leap up. I would not sully my tongue by speaking to a
man like this.

There was a level space of sward between us and the slough. With the
courtesy derived from London, and the processions I had seen, to this
place I led him. And that he might breathe himself, and have every fibre
cool, and every muscle ready, my hold upon his coat I loosed, and left
him to begin with me, whenever he thought proper.

I think that he felt that his time was come. I think he knew from my
knitted muscles, and the firm arch of my breast, and the way in which
I stood; but most of all from my stern blue eyes; that he had found his
master. At any rate a paleness came, an ashy paleness on his cheeks, and
the vast calves of his legs bowed in, as if he were out of training.

Seeing this, villain as he was, I offered him first chance. I stretched
forth my left hand, as I do to a weaker antagonist, and I let him have
the hug of me. But in this I was too generous; having forgotten my
pistol-wound, and the cracking of one of my short lower ribs. Carver
Doone caught me round the waist, with such a grip as never yet had been
laid upon me.

I heard my rib go; I grasped his arm, and tore the muscle out of it* (as
the string comes out of an orange); then I took him by the throat, which
is not allowed in wrestling; but he had snatched at mine; and now was no
time of dalliance. In vain he tugged, and strained, and writhed, dashed
his bleeding fist into my face, and flung himself on me with gnashing
jaws. Beneath the iron of my strength--for God that day was with me--I
had him helpless in two minutes, and his fiery eyes lolled out.

* A far more terrible clutch than this is handed down, to
weaker ages, of the great John Ridd.--Ed.

'I will not harm thee any more,' I cried, so far as I could for panting,
the work being very furious: 'Carver Doone, thou art beaten: own it, and
thank God for it; and go thy way, and repent thyself.'

It was all too late. Even if he had yielded in his ravening frenzy--for
his beard was like a mad dog's jowl--even if he would have owned that,
for the first time in his life, he had found his master; it was all too
late.

The black bog had him by the feet; the sucking of the ground drew on
him, like the thirsty lips of death. In our fury, we had heeded neither
wet nor dry; nor thought of earth beneath us. I myself might sca