Till now he had not seen this
flushed face before him. But he had for many days conjured it up in
his fancy--sharpening upon it the edge of his wrath, bruising himself
against the wall of wise conduct that kept him from meeting and
visiting upon it the distress his Mary had endured.
Now that he saw it in the flesh (and it was not unlike his
conception), he came at it with the impulse of one who, straining
against a rope, rushes headlong forward when a knife parts the bond.
The impulse thus given more than countered the greater bulk and reach
that should have told in Bob's scale. Bob felt his wits and his
courage simultaneously deserting him before the pell-mell of blows
that came raining against his guard. Whensoever he effected a savage
smash that momentarily checked the fury, it served but to bring back
this seemingly demented young man with a new rush and ardour.
Bob gave step by step, struck short-arm, felt the faint saltness of
blood upon his lips, staggered back before a tremendous hit between
the eyes, stumbled, tripped, fell.
"Get up!" George bellowed; waited till Bob came rushing, and sent him
reeling again with a broken tooth that cut the brown knuckles.
Bob lacked not courage and had proved it, for he was sorely battered.
But the pluck in him was whipped and now venom alone bade him make
what hurt he could.
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