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. There were
still a few tricks in his science, and these, he knew, were about his
last cards. He backed into a corner, and Jean followed, his eyes
flashing a steely light, his body growing more and more tense.
"Now, M'seur, I am going to kill you," he said in the same low voice. "I
am going to break your neck."
Howland backed against the wall, partly turned as if fearing the other's
attack, and yet without strength to repel it. There was a contemptuous
smile on Croisset's lips as he poised himself for an instant.
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