The handmaiden raced toward Larry, stopped, whistled shrilly--again
and again. Larry's pistol was empty, but as the dwarfs rushed upon him
I dropped two of them with mine. 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. 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