It jammed--I could not use it; I sprang to his side.

Rador was down, struggling in a heap of Lugur's men.

Olaf, a Viking of old, was whirling his great hammer, and striking, striking through armour, flesh, and bone.
Larry was down, Lakla flew to him.

But the Norseman, now streaming blood from a dozen wounds, caught a glimpse of her coming, turned, thrust out a mighty hand, sent her reeling back, and then with his hammer cracked the skulls of those trying to drag the O'Keefe down the path.
A cry from Lakla--the dwarfs had seized her, had lifted her despite her struggles, were carrying her away.

One I dropped with the butt of my useless pistol, and then went down myself under the rush of another.
Through the clamour I heard a booming of the _Akka_, closer, closer; then through it the bellow of Lugur.