As the Major cautioned the Gorilla, Dam passed his hand wearily across his face, swallowed once or twice and groaned aloud.

It was not fair.  Why should the Snake be allowed to humiliate him before thousands of spectators?  Why should It be brought here to shame him in the utmost publicity, to make him fail his comrades, disgrace his regiment, make the Queen’s Greys a laughing-stock?

But—­he had fought an emissary of the Snake before—­and he had won.  This villainous-looking pugilist was perhaps the Snake Itself in human form—­and, see, he was free, he was in God’s open air, no chains bound him, he was not gagged, this place was not a pit dug beneath the Pit itself!  This was all tangible and real.  He would have fair play and be able to defend himself.  This was not a blue room with a mud floor.  Nay, he would be able to attack—­to fight, fight like a wounded pantheress for her cubs.  This accursed Snake in Human Form would only be able to use puny fists.  Mere trivial human fists and human strength.  Everything would be on the human plane.  It would be unable to wrap him in its awful coils and crush and crush the soul and life and manhood out of him, as it did at night before burrowing its way ten million miles below the floor of Hell with him, and immuring him in a molten incandescent tomb where he could not even scream or writhe.

“Get to your corners,” said the referee, and Dam returned to his place with a cruel smile upon his compressed lips.  By the Merciful Living God he had the Snake Itself delivered unto him in human form—­to do with as he could.  Oh, that It might last out the fifteen times of facing him in his wrath, his pent-up vengeful wrath at a ruined life, a dishonoured name and a lost Lucille!

When would they give the word for him to spring upon it and batter it lifeless to the ground?

“Don’t grind yer silly teeth like that,” whispered Hawker, his grim ugly face white with anxiety and suspense (for he loved Damocles de Warrenne as the faithfullest of hounds loves the best of masters).  “You’re awastin’ henergy all the time.”

“God! if they don’t give the word in a minute I shall be unable to hold off It,” replied Dam wildly.

“That’s the sperrit, Cocky,” approved Hawker, “but donchew fergit you gotter larst fifteen bloomin’ rahnds.  ’Taint no kindergarters. ‘E’ll stick it orlrite, an’ you’ll avter win on points——­”

“Seconds out of the Ring,” cried the time-keeper, staring at his watch.

“Don’t get knocked out, dear boy,” implored Trooper Bear.  “Fight to win on points.  You can’t knock him out.  I’m going to pray like hell through the rounds——­”

"Time" barked the time-keeper, and, catching up the chair as Dam rose, Trooper Bear dropped down from the boards of the ring to the turf, where already crouched Hawker and Goate, looking like men about to be hanged.