"No, you don't! No, you can't! And this time your boxing tricks will do you no good. I'll finish you!"
The two had sprung to their feet with hectic energy: Pilzer's liver patch a mottled purple in the midst of his curly red beard, his head lowered in front of his short, thick neck as before a spring, and the banker's son, lighter and quicker, awaiting the attack. Some of the others half rose, while the rest looked on in curiosity mixed with indifference.
"I'll call the captain!" piped Peterkin.
The judge's son stopped Peterkin and put a hand on either of the adversaries' shoulders.
"Can't we get enough fighting from the Browns without fighting each other?" he asked.
The banker's son and Pilzer dropped back in their places, in the reaction of men who had spent their strength in defiance.
"The thick of it last night, I heard, was still at Engadir, where Westerling is determined to break through," the judge's son proceeded. "At one point they sent in a regiment with a regiment covering it from the rear, and the fellows ahead were told that they wouldn't be allowed to come back alive—just what occurred at Port Arthur, you know—so they had better take the position."
"What happened?" asked the very tired voice.
"Those who reached the enemy's works alive were taken prisoner."
Further talk was interrupted by a volume of voices singing, which seemed to issue from a cellar not far away. It had the swell of a hymn of resolute purpose.