Women had sharper eyes than men, Lizzie reflected. “Don’t tell anyone,” she said.

“You can play the man with me for a shilling,” the woman said.

Lizzie did not know what she meant.

“I’ve done it before with your type,” she went on. “Rich girls who like to play the man. I’ve got a fat candle at home that fits just right, do you know what I mean?”

Lizzie realized what she was getting at. “No, thank you,” she said with a smile. “That’s not what I’m here for.” She reached into her pocket for a coin. “But here’s a shilling for keeping my secret.”

“God bless Your Ladyship,” the prostitute said, and she went away.

You could learn a lot in disguise, Lizzie reflected. She would never have guessed that a prostitute would keep a special candle for women who liked to play the man. It was the kind of thing a lady might never find out unless she escaped from respectable society and went exploring the world outside her curtained windows.

A great cheer went up in the courtyard, and Lizzie guessed the cudgel fight had produced a victor—the last woman left standing, presumably. She went outside, carrying her beer like a man, her arm straight down at her side and her thumb hooked over the lip of the tankard.

The women gladiators were staggering away or being carried off, and the main event was about to begin. Lizzie saw McAsh right away. There was no doubt it was he: she could see the striking green eyes. He was no longer black with coal dust, and she saw to her surprise that his hair was quite fair. He stood close to the ring talking to another man. He glanced toward Lizzie several times, but he did not penetrate her disguise. He looked grimly determined.

His opponent, Rees Preece, deserved his nickname “the Welsh Mountain.” He was the biggest man Lizzie had ever seen, at least a foot taller than Mack, heavy and red faced, with a crooked nose that had been broken more than once. There was a vicious look about the face, and Lizzie marveled at the courage, or foolhardiness, of anyone who would willingly go into a prizefighting ring with such an evil-looking animal. She felt frightened for McAsh. He could be maimed or even killed, she realized with a chill of dread. She did not want to see that. She was tempted to leave, but she could not drag herself away.

The fight was about to begin when Mack’s friend got into an irate discussion with Preece’s seconds. Voices were raised and Lizzie gathered it had to do with Preece’s boots. Mack’s second was insisting, in an Irish accent, that they fight barefoot. The crowd began a slow hand clap to express their impatience. Lizzie hoped the fight would be called off. But she was disappointed. After much vehement discussion, Preece took off his boots.

Then, suddenly, the fight was on. Lizzie saw no signal. The two men were at one another like cats, punching and kicking and butting in a frenzy, moving so fast she could hardly see who was doing what. The crowd roared and Lizzie realized she was screaming. She covered her mouth with her hand.

The initial flurry lasted only a few seconds: it was too energetic to be kept up. The men separated and began to circle one another, fists raised in front of their faces, protecting their bodies with their arms. Mack’s lip was swelling and Preece’s nose was bleeding. Lizzie bit her finger fearfully.

Preece rushed Mack again, but this time Mack jumped back, dodging, then suddenly stepped in and hit Preece once, very hard, on the side of the head. Lizzie winced to hear the thud of the blow: it sounded like a sledgehammer hitting a rock. The spectators cheered wildly. Preece seemed to hesitate, as if startled by the blow, and Lizzie guessed he was surprised by Mack’s strength. She began to feel hopeful: perhaps Mack could defeat this huge man after all.

Mack danced back out of reach. Preece shook himself like a dog, then lowered his head and charged, punching wildly. Mack ducked and sidestepped and kicked Preece’s legs with a hard bare foot, but somehow Preece managed to crowd him and land several mighty punches. Then Mack hit him hard on the side of the head again, and once more Preece was stopped in his tracks.

The same dance was repeated, and Lizzie heard the Irishman yell: “In for the kill, Mack, don’t give him time to get over it!” She realized that after hitting a stopping punch Mack always backed off and let the other man recover. Preece, by contrast, always followed one punch with another and another until Mack fought him off.

After ten awful minutes someone rang a bell and the fighters took a rest Lizzie felt as grateful as if she had been in the ring herself. The two boxers were given beer as they sat on crude stools on opposite sides of the ring. One of the seconds took an ordinary household needle and thread and began to stitch a rip in Preece’s ear. Lizzie winced and looked away.

She tried to forget the damage being done to Mack’s splendid body and think of the fight as a mere contest. Mack was more nimble and had the more powerful punch, but he did not possess the mindless savagery, the killer instinct that made one man want to destroy another. He needed to get angry.

When they began again both were moving more slowly, but the combat followed the same pattern: Preece chased the dancing Mack, crowded him, got in close, landed two or three solid blows, then was stopped by Mack’s tremendous right-hand punch.

Soon Preece had one eye closed and was limping from Mack’s repeated kicks, but Mack was bleeding from his mouth and from a cut over one eye. As the fight slowed down it became more brutal. Lacking the energy to dodge nimbly, the men seemed to accept the blows in mute suffering. How long could they stand there pounding one another into dead meat? Lizzie wondered why she cared so much about McAsh’s body, and told herself that she would have felt the same about anyone.

There was another break. The Irishman knelt beside Mack’s stool and spoke urgently to him, emphasizing his words with vigorous gestures of his fist. Lizzie guessed he was telling Mack to go in for the kill. Even she could see that in a crude trial of strength and stamina Preece would win, simply because he was bigger and more hardened to punishment. Could Mack not see that for himself?

It began again. As she watched them hammering at one another, Lizzie remembered Malachi McAsh as a six-year-old boy, playing on the lawn at High Glen House. She had been his opponent then, she remembered: she had pulled his hair and made him cry. The memory brought tears to her eyes. How sad that the little boy had come to this.

There was a flurry of activity in the ring. Mack hit Preece once, twice, and a third time, then kicked his thigh, making him stagger. Lizzie was seized by the hope that Preece would collapse and the fight would end. But then Mack backed off, waiting for his opponent to fall. The shouted advice of his seconds and the bloodthirsty cries of the crowd urged him to finish Preece off, but he took no notice.

To Lizzie’s dismay Preece recovered yet again, rather suddenly, and hit Mack with a low punch in the pit of the belly. Mack involuntarily bent forward and gasped—and then, unexpectedly, Preece butted him, putting all the force of his broad back into it. Their heads met with a sickening crack. Everyone in the crowd drew breath.

Mack staggered, falling, and Preece kicked him in the side of the head. Mack’s legs gave way and he fell to the ground. Preece kicked him in the head again as he lay prone. Mack did not move. Lizzie heard herself screaming: “Leave him alone!” Preece kicked Mack again and again, until the seconds from both sides jumped into the ring and pulled him away.

Preece looked dazed, as if he could not understand why the people who had been egging him on and screaming for blood now wanted him to stop; then he regained his senses and raised his hands in a gesture of victory, looking like a dog that has pleased its master.