She was suddenly aware that a change had come over the fight.  Both men were clutching each other in a tense embrace; no blows were being struck at all.  She recognized it to be what Joe had described to her as the “clinch.”  Ponta was struggling to free himself, Joe was holding on.

The referee shouted, “Break!” Joe made an effort to get away, but Ponta got one hand free and Joe rushed back into a second clinch, to escape the blow.  But this time, she noticed, the heel of his glove was pressed against Ponta’s mouth and chin, and at the second “Break!” of the referee, Joe shoved his opponent’s head back and sprang clear himself.

For a brief several seconds she had an unobstructed view of her lover.  Left foot a trifle advanced, knees slightly bent, he was crouching, with his head drawn well down between his shoulders and shielded by them.  His hands were in position before him, ready either to attack or defend.  The muscles of his body were tense, and as he moved about she could see them bunch up and writhe and crawl like live things under the white skin.

But again Ponta was upon him and he was struggling to live.  He crouched a bit more, drew his body more compactly together, and covered up with his hands, elbows, and forearms.  Blows rained upon him, and it looked to her as though he were being beaten to death.

But he was receiving the blows on his gloves and shoulders, rocking back and forth to the force of them like a tree in a storm, while the house cheered its delight.  It was not until she understood this applause, and saw Silverstein half out of his seat and intensely, madly happy, and heard the “Oh, you, Joe’s!” from many throats, that she realized that instead of being cruelly punished he was acquitting himself well.  Then he would emerge for a moment, again to be enveloped and hidden in the whirlwind of Ponta’s ferocity.

CHAPTER V

The gong sounded.  It seemed they had been fighting half an hour, though from what Joe had told her she knew it had been only three minutes.  With the crash of the gong Joe’s seconds were through the ropes and running him into his corner for the blessed minute of rest.  One man, squatting on the floor between his outstretched feet and elevating them by resting them on his knees, was violently chafing his legs.  Joe sat on the stool, leaning far back into the corner, head thrown back and arms outstretched on the ropes to give easy expansion to the chest.  With wide-open mouth he was breathing the towel-driven air furnished by two of the seconds, while listening to the counsel of still another second who talked with low voice in his ear and at the same time sponged off his face, shoulders, and chest.

Hardly had all this been accomplished (it had taken no more than several seconds), when the gong sounded, the seconds scuttled through the ropes with their paraphernalia, and Joe and Ponta were advancing against each other to the centre of the ring.  Genevieve had no idea that a minute could be so short.  For a moment she felt that this rest had been cut, and was suspicious of she knew not what.