Some of his blows got home, but these provoked only sardonic laughter.
Wild with rage and pain he bored in. He had but one chance--to get this
shadow in his gorilla-like arms. He lacked mental flexibility. An idea,
getting into his head, stuck; it was not adjustable. Like an arrow sped
from the bowstring, it had to fulfill its destiny. It never occurred to
him to take to his heels, to get space between himself and this enemy he
had so woefully underestimated. Ten feet, and he might have been able to
whirl, draw his pistol, and end the affair.
The coup de grace came suddenly: a blow that caught Quasimodo full on
the point of the jaw. He sagged and went sprawling upon his face. The
victor turned him over and raised a heel.... No! He was neither Prussian
nor Sudanese black. He was white; and white men did not stamp in the
faces of fallen enemies.
But there was one thing a white man might do in such a case without
disturbing the ethical, and he proceeded about it forthwith: Draw the
devil's fangs; render him impotent for a few hours. He deliberately
knelt on one of the outspread arms and calmly emptied the insensible
man's pockets. He took everything--watch, money, passport, letters,
pistol, keys--rose and dropped them into the river. He overlooked
Quasimodo's belt, however. The Anglo-Saxon idea was top hole. His fists
had saved his life.