Twice again he struck out swiftly, but Jean had come and gone like a dart.

His lithe body, fifty pounds lighter than Howland's, seemed to be that of a boy dodging him in some tantalizing sport.

The Frenchman made no effort at attack; his were the tactics of the wolf at the heels of the bull moose, of the lynx before the prongs of a cornered buck--tiring, worrying, ceaseless.
Howland's striking muscles began to ache and his breath was growing shorter with the exertions which seemed to have no effect on Croisset.
For a few moments he took the aggressive, rushing Jean to the stove, behind the table, twice around the room--striving vainly to drive him into a corner, to reach him with one of the sweeping blows which Croisset evaded with the lightning quickness of a hell-diver.

When he stopped, his breath came in wind-broken gasps.

Jean drew nearer, smiling, ferociously cool.
"I am going to kill you, M'seur," he repeated again.
Howland dropped his arms, his fingers relaxed, and he forced his breath between his lips as if he were on the point of exhaustion.