Bevis breathed hard and panted. So thick came the hail that he could do nothing. If he lifted his sword it was beaten down, if he struck, ten knocks came for one. He received his punishment in silence. Tim had the cord to bind him ready: they made a noose to throw, over his head.
“Stick to Bevis,” shouted Mark. “Bevis—Bevis—stick to Bevis—Fred—ah!”—a smart knock made him grind his teeth, and four or five assailants rushing in separated him from Caesar.
Bevis was beaten on his knee. He crouched, his left side against the tree with his left hand against it, hitting wild and savage, and still keeping a short clear space with his sword.
“Stop!” cried Val, himself desisting. “That’s enough. Stop! stop! Don’t hit him! He’s done. We’ve got him! Now, Phil.”
Phil and Tim rushed in with the noose: Bevis sprang up, drove his head into Phil and sent him whirling with Tim under. Bevis made good use of the moment’s breathing time he thus obtained, punishing three of his hardest thrashers.
“Keep together,” shouted Phil as he got up on his knees. “If Ted would only do as I said. Hurrah!”
They had hammered Bevis by sheer dint of knocks down on his knees again. Fred and Bill in vain tried to get to him; they were attacked front and rear: Mark quite beside himself with rage, pushed, wrestled, and struck, but they encompassed him like bees. Bevis could hit no more; he warded as well as he could, he could not return.
“Shame! shame!” cried Val, pulling two back, one with each hand. “Don’t hit him! He’s down!”
“Why doesn’t he give in, then?” said Phil, black as thunder.
Ted Pompey, who had watched this scene for a moment without moving, smiled grimly as he saw Bevis could not hit.