bare-handed. Deadly swift was the thrust of the knife, but compared with the motion of Pierre it was as slow as tame things are when they are likened to the wild.
He caught the knife-bearing hand at the wrist and under his grip the hand loosened its hold and the steel tinkled on the floor. His other arm caught the body of Jack in a mighty vise.
There was a brief and futile struggle, and a hissing of breath in the silence till the hat tumbled from the head of Jack and down over the shoulders streamed a torrent of silken black hair.
Pierre stepped back. This was the meaning, then, of the strangely small feet and hands and the low music of the voice. It was the body of a girl that he had held, and his arm still tingled from the finger-tips to the shoulder.
