Brawls with some workers

They rose and went for him!  With a fierce shout, “The one would betray us, the other is mad!  Kill them!  Kill them!” they flung themselves upon us.  What joy flamed up in the king’s eye!  He might be lame in agriculture, but this kind of thing was just in his line.  He had been fasting long, he was hungry for a fight. He hit the blacksmith a crack under the jaw that lifted him clear off his feet and stretched him flat on his back.  "St. George for Britain!” and he downed the wheelwright.  The mason was big, but I laid him out like nothing.  The three gathered themselves up and came again; went down again; came again; and kept on repeating this, with native British pluck, until they were battered to jelly, reeling with exhaustion, and so blind that they couldn’t tell us from each other; and yet they kept right on, hammering away with what might was left in them.  Hammering each other—for we stepped aside and looked on while they rolled, and struggled, and gouged, and pounded, and bit, with the strict and wordless attention to business of so many bulldogs.  We looked on without apprehension, for they were fast getting past ability to go for help against us, and the arena was far enough from the public road to be safe from intrusion.