Rouke felt greatly mollified.
“All right! Get ready, now! Pour the wine in those glasses, Sudds! Ready! Action! Go!”
The steady click of the camera amid a breathless silence; then Rouke’s command:
“Come on, Skeeter! Come on!”
Skeeter came on!
He bounced into the picture with a perfect imitation of a she-bear approaching a man who was holding her squealing cub by the ear. Sour bad been too realistic in his acting, and Skeeter was jealous. He grabbed Sudds by the nose, shook him as a dog shakes a rat, grabbed the wine bottle and broke it over Sour’s head, then administered a punch on the jaw which sent Sudds reeling out of his chair to the ground.
Then Sudds came back. Seizing Skeeter by the nape of the neck, he pounded his head against the table until it rattled like a snare drum. Skeeter twisted and squealed until he managed to land a mighty kick in the pit of Sour’s stomach, then he sprang up, grabbed a chair and proceeded to use it as a club.
Sour seized the little deal-table, poised it above his head like a shield, and pranced around, receiving Skeeter’s frenzied blows on the top of the table instead of the top of his head.
Lalla Cordona backed slowly away from the fray, her shapely, beautiful hands clasped over her heaving breast, her breath coming in quick gasps, her face expressing emotions which alternated between fear and hope and horror and despair.
Then she swept forward with a grace and power simply majestic in its action, held out her hands to the furious men and spoke one word: