The gong struck, and after the fleeting minute of rest, they went at it again—­in Joe’s corner, for Ponta had made a rush to meet him clear across the ring.  Where the blow had been over the kidneys, the white skin had become bright red.  This splash of color, the size of the glove, fascinated and frightened Genevieve so that she could scarcely take her eyes from it.  Promptly, in the next clinch, the blow was repeated; but after that Joe usually managed to give Ponta the heel of the glove on the mouth and so hold his head back.  This prevented the striking of the blow; but three times more, before the round ended, Ponta effected the trick, each time striking the same vulnerable part.

Another rest and another round went by, with no further damage to Joe and no diminution of strength on the part of Ponta.  But in the beginning of the fifth round, Joe, caught in a corner, made as though to duck into a clinch.  Just before it was effected, and at the precise moment that Ponta was ready with his own body to receive the snuggling in of Joe’s body, Joe drew back slightly and drove with his fists at his opponent’s unprotected stomach.  Lightning-like blows they were, four of them, right and left; and heavy they were, for Ponta winced away from them and staggered back, half dropping his arms, his shoulders drooping forward and in, as though he were about to double in at the waist and collapse.  Joe’s quick eye saw the opening, and he smashed straight out upon Ponta’s mouth, following instantly with a half swing, half hook, for the jaw.  It missed, striking the cheek instead, and sending Ponta staggering sideways.

The house was on its feet, shouting, to a man.  Genevieve could hear men crying, “He’s got ’m, he’s got ’m!” and it seemed to her the beginning of the end.  She, too, was out of herself; softness and tenderness had vanished; she exulted with each crushing blow her lover delivered.

But Ponta’s vitality was yet to be reckoned with.  As, like a tiger, he had followed Joe up, Joe now followed him up.  He made another half swing, half hook, for Ponta’s jaw, and Ponta, already recovering his wits and strength, ducked cleanly.  Joe’s fist passed on through empty air, and so great was the momentum of the blow that it carried him around, in a half twirl, sideways.  Then Ponta lashed out with his left.  His glove landed on Joe’s unguarded neck.  Genevieve saw her lover’s arms drop to his sides as his body lifted, went backward, and fell limply to the floor.  The referee, bending over him, began to count the seconds, emphasizing the passage of each second with a downward sweep of his right arm.

The audience was still as death.  Ponta had partly turned to the house to receive the approval that was his due, only to be met by this chill, graveyard silence.  Quick wrath surged up in him.  It was unfair.  His opponent only was applauded—­if he struck a blow, if he escaped a blow; he, Ponta, who had forced the fighting from the start, had received no word of cheer.