“An' w'at would that be in stone?”
“Thirteen.”
“D'ye see now!” exclaimed the fighting man, dejectedly, “an' that should be my veight. Only I'm a stone above; but it's fat an' does me 'arm. You bees a 'ard un, young master, an' I doant know as 'ow I can do vor you, an' me not trained. 'Owever, I shall try all I knows. Time!”
For the second occasion the two stood forth against one another in the middle of the moonlighted glade; and again the fighting man was the aggressor. It would be still the same old tale; Rivera foiled him and beat him back upon himself at every angle of his effort. It was like, a tune to simply see Rivera for his eye and hand and foot worked all together in a fashion of harmony like the notes in music.
But the dour end was on its way, and it fell upon the victim like the bursting of a bomb. The fighting man had stepped a pace backward following a rally in which he won nothing save chagrin. As he retreated, Rivera would seem to swoop on him. It was a feint—an artifice; it had for result, however, the drawing of the fighting man again upon Rivera. Straight from his shoulder, and by way of retort or counter to the feint, the fighting man sent his left hand for Rivera's face. It would be the situation wrought for. Rivera, with feet firm set, moved his head aside so that the blow met nothing, but whistled across his left shoulder. Then his left hand, arm as stiff as a bar of iron, met the oncoming foe, carried forward with the momentum of his own wasted blow, flush in the mouth. I heard the sound of it, and saw it jolt the other's head back as though he had run against the pole of a baggage wagon. The vicious emphasis of it shook his senses in their source; before he could rally, Rivera dealt him a smashing blow above the heart with his right hand; it was a buffet like the kick of a pony and one that would have splintered a rock!
The fighting man fell forward senseless on the grass; the moonlight played across his face and tiny streams of blood were running thinly from his nose and ears. He lay without motion or quiver, and, after considering him a bit with all the warmth an artist might bestow upon a masterpiece, Rivera turned loungingly to Peg and myself where we were viewing proceedings from our knoll. There was a dancing light in Rivera's eyes such as comes to a child pleased of a new toy. As he stood before us, a smile about his mouth, he stretched upward on his toes, and raised his hands above his head, his vast chest arching and swelling the while like a drum, and the muscles of his neck writhing until they fairly burst the collar of his gray shirt and sent a button buzzing into the darkness.
“He wasn't fit,” said Rivera, recovering himself from the muscle-stretching, and beaming amiably; “the fellow was not in condition.” Here he indicated with a nod the prostrate fighting man, still stunned and bleeding where he fell.
“Have you killed him?” said Peg, with a deep breath. The girl was drawn as tense as harpstrings. “I hope he will not die.”
“Oh, no,” declared Rivera; “he will not die. In two minutes, or at the most in ten, he will be well again. If he do not come to his wits in ten minutes, I shall help him with water on his face.”
“We have to thank you,” said I; “you are a brave fellow to match yourself against a horde.”