The Wastrel did not relish this.  He flung Ruth aside, careless whether she fell or not.  There was only one idea in his head now—­to batter and bruise and crush this weakling, then cast him at the feet of his love-lorn wife.  He brought into service all his Oriental bar-room tricks.  Time after time he sent Spurlock into this corner or that; but always the boy regained his feet before the murderous boot could reach the mark.  From all angles he was at a disadvantage—­in weight, skill, endurance.  But Ruth was his woman, and he had sworn to God to defend her.

“One of us has got to die,” he panted.  “You’ve got to kill me to get out of here alive.”

The Wastrel rushed.  Spurlock dove headlong at the other’s legs, toppling the man.  In this moment he could have stamped upon the Wastrel’s face, and ended the affair; but all that was clean in him, chivalrous, revolted at the thought.  Not even for Ruth could he do such a beastly thing.  So, bloody but unbeaten, weak and spent but undaunted, he waited for the Wastrel to spring up.

The unequal battle went on.  It came to Spurlock suddenly that if something did not react in his favour inside of five minutes, he was done.  In a side-glance—­for the floor was variously encumbered with overturned objects—­he saw one of his paper weights, a coloured glass ball such as McClintock used in trade.  As the Wastrel rushed, Spurlock sidestepped, swept the ball into his hand, set himself and threw it.  If the Wastrel had not turned the instant he did, the ball would have missed him; as it was he turned directly into its path.  It struck his forehead, splitting it, and brought him to his knees.

Luck.  Spurlock understood that his vantage would be temporary; the Wastrel had been knocked down, not out.  Still, the respite was sufficient for Spurlock to look about for some weapon.  Hanging on the wall was a temple censer, bronze, moulded in the shape of a lotus blossom with stem and leaves—­deadly as a club.  He tore it down just as the Wastrel rose, wavering slightly.  Spurlock advanced, the censer swung high.

The Wastrel wiped the blood from his forehead.  The blow had brought him back to the realm of sober thought.  He glanced at Ruth (who had stood with her back to the wall, pinned there throughout the contest by terror and the knowledge of her own helplessness), then at the bronze menace, and calculated correctly that this particular adventure was finished.

His hesitation was visible, and Spurlock took advantage of this to run to Ruth.  He put his free arm around her and held the censer ready; and as Ruth snuggled her cheek against his sleeve, they were, so far as intent, in each other’s arms.  Without a word or a gesture, the Wastrel turned and staggered forth, out of the orbit of these two, having been thrust into it for a single purpose already described.

For a while they stood there, silent, motionless, staring at the doorway where still a few strings of the bamboo curtain swayed and twisted, agitated by the Wastrel’s passage.