They shook hands quickly and got to work, and were barely into holds before Harker realised that he was overmatched. He had placed his opponent at Gaskarth’s valuation, or little higher, and for a few moments he was conscious of a deadly helplessness under the other’s superior skill. Christian seemed to read his purpose at the instant it was framed, and his foot was changed or his weight thrown on the opposite side in what appeared an impossible fraction of time. He was cool, too, patient, and most terribly certain,—moreover, he was unexpectedly strong. Try as he might, Harker could not raise his hold as he had raised Gaskarth’s. Christian was always ready for him, and any attempt to force things brought him perilously near his own destruction. Once, indeed, he did go down, but with a powerful effort he brought his man alongside, and the umpires gave it a dog-fall. He got up trembling and breathing hard, but now he, too, was cool. He set his teeth, doggedly weighing his chances. Christian scaled no more than eleven stone, if he touched that, and he was out of training, while the Whyterigger was in the pink of condition, having, too, the slight advantage in years which tells so enormously at a certain age. But he was nowhere near him in knowledge and lightning judgment, and he saw that he must depend on his endurance and his magnificent lifting powers if he were to come off victor. A few seconds later he was lying on the mat, laid there as lightly as a child, sent down by a simple back-heel accomplished in the one infinitesimal second in which he had advanced his left foot an inch too far.
In the next round he held the advantage for some time, having managed to secure his favourite monopolising hold, and after a hard struggle he succeeded in forcing Christian over; but with beautiful dexterity the younger man twisted from beneath before striking ground, and reversed the positions. Harker saved himself likewise, by a marvellous exhibition of strength which brought him a grudging cheer, but he had lost his first supremacy completely, and when he put in the hank desperately, the initiated knew he was at the end of his resources. A dogged clinging together for several minutes almost without movement ended in a sharp release and the dropping of both men, Harker under.
Three out of five had been the test arranged, but already the spectators looked upon the match as won, and Harker, after a long rest, stood up to what was probably the last round, filled with bitter resentment and hot humiliation.
Yet he started carefully enough, schooling himself to patience, strung to his highest point of wariness and ingenuity, and presently he became conscious of a faint wonderment, for something was evidently the matter with Christian. During one of the pauses when they drew apart before clinching, he saw that his opponent’s eyes had a dazed and distant look, as if his mind had ceased to concentrate on the game; and though, when they closed again, he seemed still in full command of his science, Harker’s hopes rose.
It was eleven o’clock. From the church hard by the strokes reached them in spite of the wind, and the white-faced timepiece in the room replied punctually to its greater brother. Christian knew that, at Crump, the clock in the stable-yard would be equally faithful, for, only that afternoon, crossing the park, he had heard the chimes mingle and clash. His eye stayed mechanically on the white surface as he circled round the watchful Harker, his hold already joined; and as the last vibration died, a swaying blackness came over him, veiling his eyes. He was back again under the ancient cedar, the big wind roaring in his ears, the staggering giant threatening him with its monstrous, thrashing arms. He felt them crashing upon him, so seemingly alive in the murderous intensity of their purpose that he stepped back, desperately striving to elude their reach; and in that instant Harker took hold. He closed so fiercely, tautening his muscles and lifting in the same movement, that Christian winced sharply, and the shock snatched him back to the work at hand. Struggling to collect his scattered senses, he resisted Harker’s repeated attempts to put in the hipe, and, anxious to finish the round, tried both the outside stroke and the inside in quick succession, but with no result. A demon seemed to have entered into Harker, roused by the realisation of his opponent’s sudden weakness, and he saved himself time and again, often without knowing how, as they swung from end to end of the ring, twisting, lifting, wrenching, straining, with hard-coming breath and scarlet faces, until even the hardened watchers wondered that any men could last so long at such a pitch. As in a dream, Christian heard the impatient—“Stir about, umpire!” snapping like pistol-shots from every side.
There were pillars at the end by the door, stout, carved shafts, supporting the heavy gallery; and as the combatants panted down the mat for the last time, the close-pressing crowd parted a little before their violent approach. Christian’s clouded eyes went back to the clock, as if magically drawn, and at that moment Harker put in the cross-buttock with a mighty heave, sending him flying through the air clean off the mat and against the unguarded pillar. He struck the deep carving with his head, and lay still. It was five minutes past eleven.
Roger Lyndesay fell asleep when the wind dropped, but Deb, cruelly wide awake, could not persuade herself to follow him upstairs. Instead, she flung a scarf over her head, and went out to the gate. It was close upon midnight, but to her surprise Crump lights were still burning; and as she stood, resting in the quiet after the storm, she heard horses galloping down the park. They turned out by the lower lodge and were lost for a moment, then came on again, the hoofs beating nearer and louder; and something fateful in their frantic speed sent her out into the road to wait their approach. The black night hid the horsemen until they were close upon her, but one had a lantern at his saddle, dancing like a will o’ the wisp, and by its light she saw that he was Dixon of Dockerneuk. She cried after him, then, and he checked violently, swinging his horse completely round, while the other raced on into the night.
“Is anything wrong?” she asked anxiously, coming quickly to his stirrup, and he nodded, panting, as he bent towards her from his labouring mount.
“It’s Mrs. Lyndesay!” he told her, when he could get his breath. “The old cedar’s taken her at last, and it’s gone itself along with her—just as eleven o’clock struck, they say. The servants heard the crash and ran out, and they found her underneath. They were nigh scared to death with that and the storm, and they sent for me. Even Parker was down at the wrestling, and there was nobody else to see to things. Yon’s a groom gone on ahead for the doctor, and I’m seeking Mr. Christian to tell him, poor lad! You’d best keep it from your father till morning, Miss Deborah.”