De Croix's effort was to lift me to his hip for a throw; mine, to press him backward by bodily strength.

Both of us were sadly hindered by the sliding sand on which we strove.

Twice I thought I had him, when my footing failed; and once he held me fairly uplifted from the ground, yet could not make the toss.

'T was a wild grapple, for when we had exhausted all the tricks we knew, it came to be a sheer test of physical endurance.
Then, for the first time, I felt myself the master,--though he was a man, that gay French dandy, and never did my ribs crack under the pressure of a stronger hand.

But I slowly pressed him back, inch by inch, struggling like a demon to the last, until I forced his shoulders to the sand.
For a moment he lay there, panting heavily; then the old frank and easy smile came upon his lips.
"Your hand, monsieur," he said; "that is, if it yet retains sufficient strength to lift me." Upon his feet he brushed the sand from out his long hair, and bowed gallantly.
"I have done my very best, Mademoiselle.