opponent.  It was no use, however, it is next to impossible to throw a man when he is lying flat out as the Brahmin now was.  It is difficult enough to turn the dead weight of a man in that position, and when he is straining every nerve to resist the accomplishment of your object it becomes altogether impracticable.  The excitement in the crowd was intense.  The very drummer—­I ought to call him a tom-tomer—­had ceased to beat his tom-tom.  Pat’s lips were firmly pressed together, and K. was trembling with suppressed excitement.  The heaving chests and profuse perspiration bedewing the bodies of both combatants, told how severe had been their exertions.  The blacksmith seemed gathering himself up for a mighty effort, when, quick as light, the Brahmin drew his limbs together, was seen to arch his back, and with a sudden backward movement, seemed to glide from under his dashing assailant, and quicker than it takes me to write it, the positions were reversed.

The Brahmin was now above, and the blacksmith taking in the altered aspect of affairs at a glance, threw himself flat on the ground, and tried the same tactics as his opponent.  The different play of the two men now came strongly into relief.  Instead of exhausting himself with useless efforts, Roopnarain, while keeping a wary eye on every movement of his prostrate foe, contented himself while he took breath, with coolly and and yet determinedly making his grip secure.  Putting out one leg then within reach of his opponent’s hand, as a lure, he saw the blacksmith stretch forth to grasp the tempting hold.

Quicker than the dart of the python, the fierce onset of the kingly tiger, the sudden flash of the forked and quivering lightning, was the grasp made at the outstretched arm by the practised Brahmin.  His tenacious fingers closed tightly round the other’s wrist.  One sudden wrench, and he had the blacksmith’s arm bent back and powerless, held down on the little fellow’s own shoulders.  Pat smiled a derisive smile, K. uttered what was not a benison, while the Brahmins in the crowd, and all Pat’s men, raised a truly Hindoo howl.  The position of the men was now this.  The stout little man was flat on his face, one of his arms bent helplessly round on his own back.  Roopnarain, calm and cool as ever, was astride the prostrate blacksmith, placidly surveying the crowd.  The little man writhed, and twisted, and struggled, he tried with his legs to entwine himself with those of the Brahmin.  He tried to spin round; the Brahmin was watching with the eye of a hawk for a grip of the other arm, but it was closely drawn in, and firmly pressed in safety under the heaving chest of the blacksmith.  The muscles were of steel; it could not be dislodged:  that was seen at a glance.  The calmness and placidity of the old athlete was surprising, it was wonderful.  Still bending the imprisoned arm further back, he put his knee on the neck of the poor little hero, game as a pebble through it all, and by a strong steady strain tried to bend him over, till we thought either the poor fellow’s neck must break, or his arm be torn from its socket.