Seizing the big man round the thigh I drew him forward, pulled him over on my back, and in the twinkling of an eye--certainly before I myself had time to realise what had happened--he was hurled right over my head outside the enclosure.

The spectators--sportsmen all--frantically slapped their thighs, and I knew then that I had gained their sympathies.

My opponent, who had alighted on his head and nearly broken his neck, rose to his feet, looking dazed and furious that he should have been so easily thrown.

When he faced me for the second time in the square he was much more cautious, and we struggled silently, but forcefully, for some minutes without either gaining any decided advantage.

Oddly enough, at the time I was not struck by the dramatic element of the situation; but now that I have returned to civilisation I _do_ see the extraordinary nature of the combat as I look back upon those dreadful days.
Just picture the scene for yourself.