I remember yet the sickly smell of his greasy skin and the red hate of his eyes.

As we struggled I could see Ringan holding the mouth of the ravine with his sword.

One of his foes he had shot, and the best blade in the Five Seas was now engaged with three Indian knives.

I heard his happy whistling, and a grunt now and then from a wounded foe.

He had enough to do, and could give me no aid.