He
looked around guiltily, and was thankful that no feminine eyes
were near to offer him their reproaches. He jostled among the
outer circle, but could see nothing. He stooped. Something white
flashed this way and that, accompanied by the sound of low
growls. A dog fight was his first impression, and he was on the
point of leaving, for, while he secretly enjoyed the sight of
two physically perfect men waging battle, he had not the heart
to see two brutes pitted against each other, goaded on by brutes
of a lower caste. But even as he turned the crowd opened and
closed, and the brief picture was enough for him.
Her dog! And the students were beating it because they knew it
to be defenseless. Her dog! toothless and old, who could not
hold when his jaws closed on an arm or leg, but who, with that
indomitable courage of his race, fought on and on, hopelessly
and stubbornly.
He was covered with blood, one of his legs was hurt, but still
the spirit burned. It was cowardly. Maurice's jaws assumed a
particularly ferocious angle. Her dog! Rage choked him. With an
oath he flung this student aside and that, fought his way to the
center.
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