How long had we fought? five minutes—­ten—­half-an-hour—­an hour?  I could see the sweat gleaming upon his cheek, his eyes were wild, his mouth gaped open, and he drew his breath in great sobbing pants.  But, as I looked, his cudgel broke through my tired guard, and, taking me full upon the brow, drove me reeling back; my weapon slipped from my grasp, and, blinded with blood, I staggered to and fro, like a drunken man, and presently slipped to the grass.  And how sweet it was to lie thus, with my cheek upon kind mother earth, to stretch my aching body, and with my weary limbs at rest.  But Black George stood above me, panting, and, as his eyes met mine, he laughed—­a strange-sounding, broken laugh, and whirled up his cudgel—­to beat out my brains—­even as the Pedler had foretold—­to-morrow the blackbird would sing upon my motionless breast, and, looking into Black George’s eyes—­I smiled.

“Get up!” he panted, and lowered the cudgel.  “Get up—­or, by God—­I’ll do—­for ’ee!”

Sighing, I rose, and took the cudgel he held out to me, wiping the blood from my eyes as I did so.

And now, as I faced him once more, all things vanished from my ken save the man before me—­he filled the universe, and, even as he leaped upon me, I leaped upon him, and struck with all my strength; there was a jarring, splintering shock, and Black George was beaten down upon his knees, but as, dropping my weapon, I stepped forward, he rose, and stood panting, and staring at the broker cudgel in his hand.

“George!” said I.

“You ‘m a-bleedin’, Peter!”

“For that matter, so are you.”

“Blood-lettin’ be—­good for a man—­sometimes eases un.”

“It does,” I panted; “perhaps you are—­willing to hear reason—­now?”

“We be—­even so fur—­but fists be better nor—­sticks any day—­an’ I—­be goin’—­to try ye—­wi’ fists!”

“Have we not bled each other sufficiently?”

“No,” cried George, between set teeth, “theer be more nor blood-lettin’ ‘twixt you an’ me—­I said as ’ow one on us would lie out ‘ere all night—­an’ so ’e shall—­by God!—­come on—­fists be best arter all!”

This was the heyday of boxing, and, while at Oxford I had earned some small fame at the sport.  But it was one thing to spar with a man my own weight in a padded ring, with limited rounds governed by a code of rules, and quite another to fight a man like Black George, in a lonely meadow, by light of moon.  Moreover, he was well acquainted with the science, as I could see from the way he “shaped,” the only difference between us being that whereas he fought with feet planted square and wide apart, I balanced myself upon my toes, which is (I think) to be commended as being quicker, and more calculated to lessen the impact of a blow.

Brief though the respite had been, it had served me to recover my breath, and, though my head yet rung from the cudgel-stroke, and the blood still flowed freely, getting, every now and then, into my eyes, my brain was clear as we fronted each other for what we both knew must be the decisive bout.