Gabbett, his stubbly hair on end, his bloodshot eyes glaring with fury, his great hand opening and shutting in air, as though it gasped for something to seize, turned himself about from side to side--now here, now there, bellowing like a wounded bull.

His coarse shirt, rent from shoulder to flank, exposed the play of his huge muscles.

He was bleeding from a cut on his forehead, and the blood, trickling down his face, mingled with the foam on his lips, and dropped sluggishly on his hairy breast.

Each time that an assailant came within reach of the swinging cutlass, the ruffian's form dilated with a fresh access of passion.

At one moment bunched with clinging adversaries--his arms, legs, and shoulders a hanging mass of human bodies--at the next, free, desperate, alone in the midst of his foes, his hideous countenance contorted with hate and rage, the giant seemed less a man than a demon, or one of those monstrous and savage apes which haunt the solitudes of the African forests.