Of the two wrestlers, one was a veritable giant, swarthy
of skin, hairy-chested. His great hands were
extended to grasp or to parry—his head
lowered with a ferocious scowl—and across
his forehead swayed a tuft of black, shaggy hair.
He might have stood for one of those northern barbarians
whom the Romans loved to pit against their native
champions in the arena. He was the greater because
of the opponent he faced, and it was upon this opponent
that the eyes of Father Anthony centered.
Like Father Victor, he was caught first by the bright
hair. It was a dark red, and where the light
struck it strongly there were places like fire.
Down from this hair the light slipped like running
water over a lithe body, slender at the hips, strong-chested,
round and smooth of limb, with long muscles leaping
and trembling at every move.
He, like the big fighter, circled cautiously about,
but the impression he gave was as different from the
other as day is from night. His head was carried
high; in place of a scowl, he smiled with a sort of
eagerness, a light which was partly exultation and
partly mischief sparkled in his eyes. Once or
twice the giant caught at the other, but David slipped
from under the grip of Goliath easily. It seemed
as if his skin were oiled. The big man snarled
with anger, and lunged more eagerly at Pierre.
The two, abandoning their feints, suddenly rushed
together, and the swarthy arms of the monster slipped
around the white body of Pierre. For a moment
they whirled, twisting and struggling.
“Now!” murmured Father Victor; and as
if in answer to a command, Pierre slipped down, whipped
his hands to a new grip, and the two crashed to the
mat, with Pierre above.
“Open your eyes, Father Anthony. The lad
is safe. How Goliath grunts!” The boy
had not cared to follow his advantage, but rose and
danced away, laughing softly. The Canuck floundered
up and rushed like a furious bull. His downfall
was only the swifter. The impact of the two bodies
sounded like hands clapped together, and then Goliath
rose into the air, struggling mightily, and pitched
with a thud to the mat.
He writhed there, for the wind was knocked from his
body by the fall. At length he struggled to a
sitting posture and glared up at the conqueror.
The boy reached out a hand to his fallen foe.
“You would have thrown me that way the first
time,” he said, “but you let me change
grips on you. In another week you will be too
much for me, bon ami.”
The other accepted the hand after an instant of hesitation
and was dragged to his feet. He stood looking
down into the boy’s face with a singular grin.
But there was no triumph in the eye of Pierre—only
a good-natured interest.
“In another week,” answered the giant,
“there would not be a sound bone in my body.”
“You have seen him,” murmured the tall
priest. “Now let us go back and wait for
him. I will leave word.”
