On the side of Phelem-ghe-Madone was Colonel Moncreif, as umpire; and Kilter, as second, to support him on his knee.

On the side of Helmsgail, the Honourable Pughe Beaumaris was umpire, with Lord Desertum, from Kilcarry, as bottle-holder, to support him on his knee.

The two combatants stood for a few seconds motionless in the ring, whilst the watches were being compared.  They then approached each other and shook hands.

Phelem-ghe-Madone said to Helmsgail,—­

“I should prefer going home.”

Helmsgail answered, handsomely,—­

“The gentlemen must not be disappointed, on any account.”

Naked as they were, they felt the cold.  Phelem-ghe-Madone shook.  His teeth chattered.

Dr. Eleanor Sharpe, nephew of the Archbishop of York, cried out to them,—­

“Set to, boys; it will warm you.”

Those friendly words thawed them.

They set to.

But neither one nor the other was angry.  There were three ineffectual rounds.  The Rev. Doctor Gumdraith, one of the forty Fellows of All Souls’ College, cried,—­

“Spirit them up with gin.”

But the two umpires and the two seconds adhered to the rule.  Yet it was exceedingly cold.

First blood was claimed.

They were again set face to face.

They looked at each other, approached, stretched their arms, touched each other’s fists, and then drew back.

All at once, Helmsgail, the little man, sprang forward.  The real fight had begun.

Phelem-ghe-Madone was struck in the face, between the Ryes.  His whole face streamed with blood.  The crowd cried,—­

“Helmsgail has tapped his claret!”

There was applause.  Phelem-ghe-Madone, turning his arms like the sails of a windmill, struck out at random.

The Honourable Peregrine Bertie said, “Blinded;” but he was not blind yet.

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.