Meanwhile Cashel had followed Paradise to the ropes.
"Now he has him," chuckled Skene. "My boy's got him agin the ropes;
and he means to keep him there. Let him rush now, if he can. See
what it is to have a good judgment."
Mellish shook his head again despondently. The remaining minutes of
the round were unhappy ones for Paradise. He struck viciously at his
opponent's ribs; but Cashel stepped back just out of his reach, and
then returned with extraordinary swiftness and dealt him blows from
which, with the ropes behind him, he had no room to retreat, and
which he was too slow to stop or avoid. His attempts to reach his
enemy's face were greatly to the disadvantage of his own; for
Cashel's blows were never so tremendous as when he turned his head
deftly out of harm's way, and met his advancing foe with a counter
hit. He showed no chivalry and no mercy, and revelled in the
hardness of his hitting; his gloves either resounding on Paradise's
face or seeming to go almost through his body. There was little
semblance to a contest: to Lydia there was nothing discernible but a
cruel assault by an irresistible athlete on a helpless victim. The
better sort among the spectators were disgusted by the sight; for,
as Paradise bled profusely, and as his blood besmeared the gloves
and the gloves besmeared the heads and bodies of both combatants,
they were soon stained with it from their waists upward. The
managers held a whispered consultation as to whether the sparring
exhibition had not better be stopped; but they decided to let it
proceed on seeing the African king, who had watched the whole
entertainment up to the present without displaying the least
interest, now raise his hands and clap them with delight.
"Billy don't look half pleased with hisself," observed Mellish, as
the two boxers sat down. "He looks just like he did when he spiked
Shepstone."
"What does spiking mean?" said Lydia.
"Treading on a man's foot with spiked boots," replied Lord
Worthington. "Don't be alarmed; they have no spikes in their shoes
to-day. It is not my fault that they do such things, Miss Carew.
Really, you make me feel quite criminal when you look at me in that
way."
Time was now called; and the pugilists, who had, by dint of
sponging, been made somewhat cleaner, rose with mechanical
promptitude at the sound, Cashel had hardly advanced two steps when,
though his adversary seemed far out of his reach, he struck him on
the forehead with such force as to stagger him, and then jumped back
laughing. Paradise rushed forward; but Cashel eluded him, and fled
round the ring, looking back derisively over his shoulder. Paradise
now dropped all pretence of good-humor. With an expression of
reckless ferocity, he dashed at Cashel; endured a startling blow
without flinching, and engaged him at close quarters. For a moment
the falling of their blows reminded Lydia of the rush of raindrops
against a pane in a sudden gust of wind. The next moment Cashel was
away; and Paradise, whose blood was again flowing, was trying to
repeat his manoeuvre, to be met this time by a blow that brought him
upon one knee. He had scarcely risen when Cashel sprang at him;
dealt him four blows with dazzling rapidity; drove him once more
against the ropes; but this time, instead of keeping him there, ran
away in the manner of a child at play. Paradise, with foam as well
as blood at his lips, uttered a howl, and tore off his gloves. There
was a shout of protest from the audience; and Cashel, warned by it,
tried to get off his gloves in turn. But Paradise was upon him
before he could accomplish this, and the two men laid hold of one
another amid a great clamor, Lord Worthington and others rising and
excitedly shouting, "Against the rules! No wrestling!" followed by a
roar of indignation as Paradise was seen to seize Cashel's shoulder
in his teeth as they struggled for the throw. Lydia, for the first
time in her life, screamed. Then she saw Cashel, his face fully as
fierce as Paradise's, get his arm about his neck; lift him as a
coal-heaver lifts a sack, and fling him over his back, heels over
head, to the ground, where he instantly dropped on him with his
utmost weight and impetus. The two were at once separated by a crowd
of managers, umpires, policemen, and others who had rushed towards
the ring when Paradise had taken off his gloves. A distracting
wrangle followed. Skene had climbed over the palisade, and was
hurling oaths, threats, and epithets at Paradise, who, unable to
stand without assistance, was trying to lift his leaden eyelids and
realize what had happened to him. A dozen others were trying to bring
him to his senses, remonstrating with him on his conduct, or trying to
pacify Skene. Cashel, on the other side, raged at the managers, who
were reminding him that the rules of glove-fighting did not allow
wrestling and throwing.