There was a crack, the bottle was flying, Loerke had started back, the three stood quivering in violent emotion.

Loerke turned to Gerald, a devilish leer on his bright-skinned face.

‘Well done!’ he said, in a satirical demoniac frenzy. ‘C’est le sport, sans doute.’

The next instant he was sitting ludicrously in the snow, Gerald’s fist having rung against the side of his head. But Loerke pulled himself together, rose, quivering, looking full at Gerald, his body weak and furtive, but his eyes demoniacal with satire.

‘Vive le heros, vive — ’

But he flinched, as, in a black flash Gerald’s fist came upon him, banged into the other