The latter tightened his grip and saw his enemy going black in the face.… Swiftly Rivoli changed his hold. While keeping one arm round the American's leg, at the knee, he seized his foot with the other hand and pressed it backward with all his gigantic strength. As the leg bent back, he pressed his other arm more tightly into the back of the knee. In a moment the leg must snap like a carrot, and the American knew it—and also that he would be lame for life if his knee-joint were thus rent asunder. It was useless to hope that Rivoli would suffocate before the leg broke.… Nor would a dead Rivoli be a sufficient compensation for perpetual lameness. Never to walk nor ride nor fight.… A lame husband for Carmelita.… Loosing his hold on his antagonist's throat, he punched him a paralysing blow on the muscle of the arm that was bending his leg back, and then seized the same arm by the wrist with both hands, and freed his foot.… A deadlock.… They glared into each other's eyes, mutually impotent, and then, by tacit mutual consent, released holds, rose, and confronted each other afresh.
So far, honours were decidedly with the American, and a loud spontaneous cheer arose from the spectators. "Vive le Bouckaing Bronceau!" was the general sentiment.
Carmelita sat like a statue on her high chair—lifeless save for her terrible eyes. Though her lips did not move, she prayed with all the fervour of her ardent nature.
Breathing heavily, the antagonists faced each other like a pair of half-crouching tigers.… Suddenly Rivoli kicked. Not the horizontal kick of la savate in which the leg is drawn up to the chest and the foot
