I made a mighty effort, swung a hand up, and sunk my fingers in the throat of the soldier striving to kill me.

Writhing over him, my fingers touched a poniard; I thrust it deep, staggered to my feet.
The O'Keefe, shielding Lakla, was battling with a long sword against a half dozen of the soldiers.

I started toward him, was struck, and under the impact hurled to the ground.

Dizzily I raised myself--and leaning upon my elbow, stared and moved no more.

For the dwarfs lay dead, and Larry, holding Lakla tightly, was staring even as I, and ranged at the head of the path were the _Akka_, whose booming advance in obedience to the handmaiden's call I had heard.
And at what we all stared was Olaf, crimson with his wounds, and Lugur, in blood-red armour, locked in each other's grip, struggling, smiting, tearing, kicking, and swaying about the little space before the embrasure.