| 391 | 392 | 393 | 394 | 395 |
| 1 | 236 | 472 | 708 | 944 |
|
Then Helmsgail heard on all sides these encouraging words,--
"Bung up his peepers!"
On the whole, the two champions were really well matched; and,
notwithstanding the unfavourable weather, it was seen that the fight
would be a success.
The great giant, Phelem-ghe-Madone, had to bear the inconveniences of
his advantages; he moved heavily. His arms were massive as clubs; but
his chest was a mass. His little opponent ran, struck, sprang, gnashed
his teeth; redoubling vigour by quickness, from knowledge of the
science.
On the one side was the primitive blow of the fist--savage,
uncultivated, in a state of ignorance; on the other side, the civilized
blow of the fist. Helmsgail fought as much with his nerves as with his
muscles, and with as much intention as force. Phelem-ghe-Madone was a
kind of sluggish mauler--somewhat mauled himself, to begin with. It was
art against nature. It was cultivated ferocity against barbarism.
It was clear that the barbarian would be beaten, but not very quickly.
Hence the interest.
A little man against a big one, and the chances are in favour of the
little one. The cat has the best of it with a dog. Goliaths are always
393
Page
Quick Jump
|