Philip did not wait, but sprang on his man like a tiger. Ross met his blow, dodged, feinted; they gripped, swinging to and fro; there was a struggle, and Philip fell again with a dull thud against the ground.
“Will you stop now?” said Ross.
“No, no, no,” cried Philip, leaping to his feet.
“I'll eat you up. I'm a glutton, I can tell you.” But his voice trembled, and Philip, blind with passion, laughed.
“You'll be hurt,” said Ross.
“What of that?” said Philip.
“You'll be killed.”
“I'm willing.”
Ross tried to laugh mockingly, but the hoarse gurgle choked in his throat. He began to tremble. “This man doesn't know when he's mauled,” he muttered, and after a loud curse he stood up afresh, with a craven and shifty look. His blows fell like scorching missiles, but Philip took them like a rock scoured with shingle, raining blood like water, but standing firm.
“What's the use?” cried Ross; “drop it.”