“Now! None of that! None of that!” said Mr. May, peremptory. But Ciccio, stretching forward taut and immobile with rage, was quite unconscious. His hand was fast on his stage knife.
“A dirty Eyetalian,” said Max, in English, turning to Mr. May. “They understand nothing.”
But the last word was smothered in Ciccio’s spring and stab. Max half started on to his guard, received the blow on his collar-bone, near the pommel of the shoulder, reeled round on top of Mr. May, whilst Ciccio sprang like a cat down from the stage and bounded across the theatre and out of the door, leaving the knife rattling on the boards behind him. Max recovered and sprang like a demon, white with rage, straight out into the theatre after him.
“Stop—stop—!” cried Mr. May.
“Halte, Max! Max, Max, attends!” cried Louis and Geoffrey, as Louis sprang down after his friend. Thud went the boards again, with the spring of a man.
Alvina, who had been seated waiting at the piano below, started up and overturned her chair as Ciccio rushed past her. Now Max, white, with set blue eyes, was upon her.
“Don’t—!” she cried, lifting her hand to stop his progress. He saw her, swerved, and hesitated, turned to leap over the seats and avoid her, when Louis caught him and flung his arms round him.
“Max—attends, ami! Laisse le partir. Max, tu sais que je t’aime. Tu le sais, ami. Tu le sais. Laisse le partir.”
Max and Louis wrestled together in the gangway, Max looking down with hate on his friend. But Louis was determined also, he wrestled as fiercely as Max, and at last the latter began to yield. He was panting and beside himself. Louis still held him by the hand and by the arm.
“Let him go, brother, he isn’t worth it. What does he understand, Max, dear brother, what does he understand? These fellows from the south, they are half children, half animal. They don’t know what they are doing. Has he hurt you, dear friend? Has he hurt you? It was a dummy knife, but it was a heavy blow—the dog of an Italian. Let us see.”