She was an adept at the game, as Ned could feel by the way she tried to slip her arms under his, but so was he. Quick as lightning he got one arm under, while she managed to do the same with him, and then the trial of strength and agility began.
They were equal as far as grip was concerned, but the chivalry of our hero placed him at a disadvantage. He could not forget her sex, and dreaded crushing her if he put out his full strength.
All the same, he wished she had been a man, for she was a most worthy adversary; also, if he spared her, she had no such feelings for him. He felt she was in deadly earnest, and was striving her utmost to break his back or neck. As he said afterwards, Pylea was a vicious cat at wrestling.
He might have thrown her, or tripped her up, had he liked, for he was as hard as iron, and had the advantage of weight, although she was no mean weight herself.
But he preferred the waiting and eluding game, so together they strode backwards and forwards for full five minutes without either of them losing their feet or grip.
Then gradually, as her hot and panting breath struck down his neck, he worked his hand down the links, until he had her round the small of the waist.
Next instant, by a quick jerk, she was off the ground and in his power. Had she been only a man, he would have thrown her without compunction over his back, but as it was, he placed her gently on the ground, and pinned down her arms.
It is sad to relate, yet as he did this with all the gentleness possible, under the circumstances, she showed her sex by making her white teeth meet in the fleshy part of his arm. She had wrestled fairly up to this moment of defeat, and Ned was too much of a man to resent that last touch of vanquished ire. He looked at her reproachfully as he rose to his feet. As he did this, the tears rushed into her eyes, while she covered her face with her hands, as if ashamed as well as beaten.