with the rage and excitement of battle, Philip let out a yell. The
end of it was stifled by a pair of furry arms. His head snapped
back--and he was down.

A thrill of horror shot through him. It was the one unconquerable
fighting trick of the Eskimos--that neck hold. Caught from behind
there was no escape from it. It was the age-old sasaki-wechikun,
or sacrifice-hold, an inheritance that came down from father to
son--the Arctic jiu-jitsu by which one Kogmollock holds the victim
helpless while a second cuts out his heart. Flat on his back, with
his head and shoulders bent under him, Philip lay still for a
single instant. He heard the shrill command of the Eskimo over
him--an exhortation for the other to hurry up with the knife. And
then, even as he heard a grunting reply, his hand came in contact
with the pocket which held Celie's little revolver. He drew it
quickly, cocked it under his back, and twisting his arm until the
elbow-joint cracked, he fired. It was a chance shot. The powder-
flash burned the murderous, thick-lipped face in the sealskin
hood. There was no cry, no sound that Philip heard. But the arms
relaxed about his neck. He rolled over and sprang to his feet.
Three or four paces from him was the Eskimo he had struck,
crawling toward him on his hands and knees, still dazed by the
blows he had received. In the snow Philip saw his club. He picked
it up and replaced the revolver in his pocket. A single blow as
the groggy Eskimo staggered to his feet and the fight was over.

It had taken perhaps three or four minutes--no longer than that.
His enemies lay in three dark and motionless heaps in the snow.
Fate had played a strong hand with him. Almost by a miracle he had
escaped and at least two of the Eskimos were dead.