He clinched his fist and swung his mighty arm with a blow like a sledge-hammer stroke.
He caught his assailant full upon the chin, and the latter’s head shot back with a snap. He recovered himself a moment later and sprang in again. But he had lost his chance.
Mark was ready for him then, nor did he mean to be caught in a trap again. He was as quick to leap away as his assailant to leap at him. After that it was a boxing match, at which none was more skillful than Mark. Bounding, dodging here and there, his foe never once succeeded in fastening upon him, while Mark landed blow after blow with all his might.
The plebe was watching warily for a chance to end the battle. He knew that he had it all his way then. The maniac halted, breathless; the other took his cue. A moment later the savage creature was lying prone upon the ground, writhing helplessly from the effects of the crushing swing that had landed full upon his forehead.
Mark would have stopped to bind him safely in some way, but at that instant he heard the groan repeated. Texas! And instantly Mark dashed toward the spot again, wild with dread for his friend.
The figure was lying upon the ground in the bushes. The plebe snatched him up, bore him out into the moonlight. The next moment he staggered back almost blinded with horror at what he saw. It was Allen!
The lieutenant was gasping feebly; he fixed his bloodshot eyes upon Mark. Then sat up convulsively and gazed about him in terror.
“The man!” he gasped. “The man!”
Mark was too dumfounded to answer in words, but he pointed across the clearing at the figure.
“Catch him!” panted the officer. “Don’t let him get—away!”