The noise of the yelling house died suddenly.  The referee, stooping over the inert body, was counting the seconds.  Ponta tottered and fell to his knees.  He struggled to his feet, swaying back and forth as he tried to sweep the audience with his hatred.  His legs were trembling and bending under him; he was choking and sobbing, fighting to breathe.  He reeled backward, and saved himself from falling by a blind clutching for the ropes.  He clung there, drooping and bending and giving in all his body, his head upon his chest, until the referee counted the fatal tenth second and pointed to him in token that he had won.

He received no applause, and he squirmed through the ropes, snakelike, into the arms of his seconds, who helped him to the floor and supported him down the aisle into the crowd.  Joe remained where he had fallen.  His seconds carried him into his corner and placed him on the stool.  Men began climbing into the ring, curious to see, but were roughly shoved out by the policemen, who were already there.

Genevieve looked on from her peep-hole.  She was not greatly perturbed.  Her lover had been knocked out.  In so far as disappointment was his, she shared it with him; but that was all.  She even felt glad in a way.  The Game had played him false, and he was more surely hers.  She had heard of knockouts from him.  It often took men some time to recover from the effects.  It was not till she heard the seconds asking for the doctor that she felt really worried.

They passed his limp body through the ropes to the stage, and it disappeared beyond the limits of her peep-hole.  Then the door of her dressing-room was thrust open and a number of men came in.  They were carrying Joe.  He was laid down on the dusty floor, his head resting on the knee of one of the seconds.  No one seemed surprised by her presence.  She came over and knelt beside him.  His eyes were closed, his lips slightly parted.  His wet hair was plastered in straight locks about his face.  She lifted one of his hands.  It was very heavy, and the lifelessness of it shocked her.  She looked suddenly at the faces of the seconds and of the men about her.  They seemed frightened, all save one, and he was cursing, in a low voice, horribly.  She looked up and saw Silverstein standing beside her.  He, too, seemed frightened.  He rested a kindly hand on her shoulder, tightening the fingers with a sympathetic pressure.

This sympathy frightened her.  She began to feel dazed.  There was a bustle as somebody entered the room.  The person came forward, proclaiming irritably:  “Get out!  Get out!  You’ve got to clear the room!”

A number of men silently obeyed.

“Who are you?” he abruptly demanded of Genevieve.  “A girl, as I’m alive!”

“That’s all right, she’s his girl,” spoke up a young fellow she recognized as her guide.

“And you?” the other man blurted explosively at Silverstein.