The next time I repeated the manœuvre, and then a grim grin of triumph lighted his face. He crouched again and moved about me, stalking me to drive me into an awkward corner of the place, his eyes gleaming the while with fierce confidence and murderous intent.
Inspired by this over-confidence, he sprang at me again, this time too far, calculating that I should again give way. But I did not, and as he jumped back hurriedly to retrieve the mistake I closed on him, caught his right wrist with my left hand, and pressed him back, chest to chest, holding my right hand away from his left which groped frantically and desperately to clutch it.
In that kind of tussle he was no match for me. I had all a trained wrestler’s tricks with my legs, and tripped him in a moment so that he went down with his left arm under him. I heard the bone snap as we fell and I tore the knife from his grip.
His life was mine by all the laws of combat in that wild district, and for a moment I held my weapon poised ready to strike home to his heart.
To do him justice he neither quailed, nor uttered a sound. If he had shown a sign of weakness I think I should have finished the thing as I was fairly entitled to, and have killed him. But he was a brave fellow, so I spared him and got up and turned to the rest.
“Do either of you dispute my leadership?” I said to the others. But they had had their lesson, and had apparently learnt it thoroughly.
“It was Karasch’s doing, and his only,” said Petrov, who had formerly taken sides against me.
“Get up, Karasch,” I said, in a short sharp tone. He got up, and I saw his left arm was dangling uselessly at his side. “Now tell me why you set that prisoner free?”
“You can fight. Your muscles are like iron. I’ll serve a man who can fight as you can,” he growled.
“That’s a bargain,” said I. “Here;” and I held out my hand. He looked at me in surprise.