Hodge kept his hold, attempting to twist the fellow’s wrist, and thus force him to drop the rapier. But Bertrand’s hold was not broken thus easily, and with his left hand he tore Bart’s fingers from his throat.
“Dog!” he huskily hissed. “Throw a chair at me, will you? Now I am going to fix you!”
Then the struggle for the possession of the rapier began, Defarge doing his best to cast Bart away long enough to lift and thrust with the weapon.
Bart knew it was a fight for his very life, as the French youth was wrought to a pitch of rage that robbed him entirely of his reason. There was a terrible glare in his eyes. His teeth were set and a white froth began to form on his parted lips.
With all his strength he strove to twist away from Bart’s grip, but Hodge held fast.
“Steady!” Bart growled. “You can’t do it!”
“I will! I will!” panted Defarge. “I’ll kill you!”
“You may find that I’m quite as hard to kill as Frank Merriwell.”
“What do you mean?”
“You know what I mean!”