Back and forth the combatants struggled, neither gaining any decided advantage, each trying to land a blow that would end the battle. Reeling, gasping, striking, falling to their knees from sheer weakness, the men fought on under a burning noonday sun.
No knight of old ever fought more nobly for a fair lady’s honour than did Donald McLean that day by the lake-shore. His undershirt was torn to tatters, showing his white skin blotched with welts and bruises. He was losing his sense of distance. Swinging wildly with his left, his wrist struck Hand’s adamantine jaw and the onlookers saw his face writhe in pain as the arm fell helplessly to his side.
“ ’E’s broken ’is ’and,” groaned Andy.
“Oh, stop it, Andy, please stop it!” sobbed Connie, her arms held out in entreaty.
Donald’s face turned a sickly grey, and as the well-nigh sightless foreigner staggered weakly toward him, he with a strength born of agony whipped his right to his opponent’s sagging jaw. The big man faltered, sank slowly to hands and knees, then stretched at full length, his face pressing the soil, quivered and lay still. No sound came from the crowd. The thing had been too stupendous for immediate shouting or applause. Donald stood for an instant swaying uncertainly, then turned to stumble toward his cabin.
Blackie sprang to the top of a stump and swung his hat in the air. “Three cheers for our boss!” he yelled wildly.
A roaring cheer came from the crowd with a right good will.
“Boys, let’s go back to work!” shouted Blackie.
“We’re with you, Blackie!” they answered.
Gillis reached Donald’s side as he tottered into the cabin and caught him in his arms as he collapsed into unconsciousness. The big man picked him up tenderly and placed him on the bed.