The man was of great size, and his whole appearance reminded Paul of the
ancient gladiators of whom he had read. He seemed to be a West Indian of
Spanish descent, very dark and with immense shoulders. He wore a red
shirt, which added to his strange and savage appearance. He carried in his
hand a long sword, much longer than Paul's and when he faced the lad he
suddenly grasped the hilt of his weapon in both hands and twirled it about
until it made a glittering circle. The crowd set up a shout, but Paul felt
chilled through and through.
"I have no quarrel with this man," he called to Alvarez, "and I will not
fight him."
"You have no choice," replied Alvarez, and the more savage in the crowd,
who wished to see barbaric sport, shouted their approval. But some were
silent. Long Jim struggled with four men, and exclaimed, "It's murder!
He's only a boy!" But the four held him fast.
The swordsman, grinning in the certainty of easy triumph, advanced upon
Paul.
Now Paul understood. He was there to furnish sport, terrible, deadly
sport, and he must fight if he would save himself. As Alvarez truly said,
no choice was left to him. If he sprang for the barrier they would thrust
him back, and that was not a thing to be endured.
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