The fighting man got slowly to his feet. Then he looked on Rivera with an eye of puzzled discontent. “Be you playin' vith me, lad?” said he at last. This in a manner of injury. Rivera made no retort other than his quiet laugh that told rather of pleasure than amusement. Clearly, Rivera was in enjoyment's very heart and his cup would come to him crowned of high delight. The fighting man went now and leaned against a tree to breathe himself. Presently he spoke again; I could tell by the way of it how his regard for Rivera had been augmented. “'Ow 'eavy be you, lad?” he asked, his breath still coming in short, deep puffs. “One hundred and eighty-two,” said Rivera. “An' w'at would that be in stone?” “Thirteen.” “D'ye see now!” exclaimed the fighting man, dejectedly, “an' that should be my veight. Only I'm a stone above; but it's fat an' does me 'arm. You bees a 'ard un, young master, an' I doant know as 'ow I can do vor you, an' me not trained. 'Owever, I shall try all I knows. Time!” For the second occasion the two stood forth against one another in the middle of the moonlighted glade; and again the fighting man was the aggressor. It would be still the same old tale; Rivera foiled him and beat him back upon himself at every angle of his effort. It was like, a tune to simply see Rivera for his eye and hand and foot worked all together in a fashion of harmony like the notes in music. But the dour end was on its way, and it fell upon the victim like the bursting of a bomb. The fighting man had stepped a pace backward following a rally in which he won nothing save chagrin. As he retreated, Rivera would seem to swoop on him. It was a feint--an artifice; it had for result, however, the drawing of the fighting man again upon Rivera. Straight from his shoulder, and by way of retort or counter to the feint, the fighting man sent his left hand for Rivera's face. It would be the situation wrought for. Rivera, with feet firm set, moved his head aside so that the blow met nothing, but whistled across his left shoulder. Then his left hand, arm as stiff as a bar of iron, met the oncoming foe, carried forward with the momentum of his own wasted blow, flush in the mouth. I heard the sound of it, and saw it jolt the other's head back as though he had run against the pole of a baggage wagon. The vicious emphasis of it shook his senses in their source; before he could rally, Rivera dealt him a smashing blow above the heart with his right hand; it was a buffet like the kick of a pony and one that would have splintered a rock!