He was going to fall upon him with his fists, with his teeth, staging a prehistoric struggle,--the animal fight before mankind had invented the club.
Perhaps that other man was hiding firearms and might kill him; but he, in his superb vengeance, could see only the death of the enemy, repelling all fear.
In order that his victim might not get out of his sight, he ran toward him without any dissimulation whatever, as though he might have been in the desert, at full speed.

The instinct of attack made him stoop, grasp a piece of wood lying on the ground,--a kind of rustic handspike,--and armed in this primitive fashion he continued his race.
All this had lasted but a few seconds.

The other one, perceiving the hostile pursuit, was also running frankly, disappearing among the hills of packages.
The captain saw confusedly that some shadows were leaping around him, preventing his progress.

His eyes that were seeing everything red finally managed to distinguish a few black faces and some white ones....

They were the soldiers and civilian stevedores, alarmed by the aspect of this man who was running like a lunatic.
He uttered a curse upon finding himself stopped.