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. I crawled over toward the O'Keefe. He raised his
pistol, dropped it.

"Can't hit him without hitting Olaf," he whispered. Lakla signalled
the frog-men; they advanced toward the two--but Olaf saw them, broke
the red dwarf's hold, sent Lugur reeling a dozen feet away.

"No!" shouted the Norseman, the ice of his pale-blue eyes glinting
like frozen flames, blood streaming down his face and dripping from
his hands. "No! Lugur is mine! None but me slays him! Ho, you Lugur--"
and cursed him and Yolara and the Dweller hideously--I cannot set
those curses down here.

They spurred Lugur. Mad now as the Norseman, the red dwarf sprang.
Olaf struck a blow that would have killed an ordinary man, but Lugur
only grunted, swept in, and seized him about the waist; one mighty arm
began to creep up toward Huldricksson's throat.

"'Ware, Olaf!" cried O'Keefe; but Olaf did not answer. He waited until
the red dwarf's hand was close to his shoulder; and then, with an
incredibly rapid movement--once before had I seen something like it
in a wrestling match between Papuans--he had twisted Lugur around;
twisted him so that Olaf's right arm lay across the tremendous breast,
the left behind the neck, and Olaf's left leg held the Voice's