Time was now called; and the pugilists, who had, by dint of
sponging, been made somewhat cleaner, rose with mechanical
promptitude at the sound, Cashel had hardly advanced two steps when,
though his adversary seemed far out of his reach, he struck him on
the forehead with such force as to stagger him, and then jumped back
laughing. Paradise rushed forward; but Cashel eluded him, and fled
round the ring, looking back derisively over his shoulder. Paradise
now dropped all pretence of good-humor. With an expression of
reckless ferocity, he dashed at Cashel; endured a startling blow
without flinching, and engaged him at close quarters. For a moment
the falling of their blows reminded Lydia of the rush of raindrops
against a pane in a sudden gust of wind. The next moment Cashel was
away; and Paradise, whose blood was again flowing, was trying to
repeat his manoeuvre, to be met this time by a blow that brought him
upon one knee. He had scarcely risen when Cashel sprang at him;
dealt him four blows with dazzling rapidity; drove him once more
against the ropes; but this time, instead of keeping him there, ran
away in the manner of a child at play. Paradise, with foam as well
as blood at his lips, uttered a howl, and tore off his gloves. There
was a shout of protest from the audience; and Cashel, warned by it,
tried to get off his gloves in turn. But Paradise was upon him
before he could accomplish this, and the two men laid hold of one
another amid a great clamor, Lord Worthington and others rising and
excitedly shouting, "Against the rules! No wrestling!" followed by a
roar of indignation as Paradise was seen to seize Cashel's shoulder
in his teeth as they struggled for the throw. Lydia, for the first
time in her life, screamed. Then she saw Cashel, his face fully as
fierce as Paradise's, get his arm about his neck; lift him as a
coal-heaver lifts a sack, and fling him over his back, heels over
head, to the ground, where he instantly dropped on him with his
utmost weight and impetus. The two were at once separated by a crowd
of managers, umpires, policemen, and others who had rushed towards
the ring when Paradise had taken off his gloves. A distracting
wrangle followed. Skene had climbed over the palisade, and was
hurling oaths, threats, and epithets at Paradise, who, unable to
stand without assistance, was trying to lift his leaden eyelids and
realize what had happened to him. A dozen others were trying to bring
him to his senses, remonstrating with him on his conduct, or trying to
pacify Skene. Cashel, on the other side, raged at the managers, who
were reminding him that the rules of glove-fighting did not allow
wrestling and throwing.
"Rules be d---d," Lydia heard him shouting. "He bit me; and I'll
throw him to--" Then everybody spoke at once; and she could only
conjecture where he would throw him to. He seemed to have no
self-control: Paradise, when he came to himself, behaved better.
Lord Worthington descended into the ring and tried to calm the
hubbub; but Cashel shook his hand fiercely from his arm; menaced a
manager who attempted to call him sternly to order; frantically
pounded his wounded shoulder with his clenched fist, and so outswore
and outwrangled them all, that even Skene began to urge that there
had been enough fuss made. Then Lord Worthington whispered a word
more; and Cashel suddenly subsided, pale and ashamed, and sat down
on a chair in his corner as if to hide himself. Five minutes
afterwards, he stepped out from the crowd with Paradise, and shook
hands with him amid much cheering. Cashel was the humbler of the
two. He did not raise his eyes to the balcony once; and he seemed in
a hurry to retire. But he was intercepted by an officer in uniform,
accompanied by a black chief, who came to conduct him to the dais