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. 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.
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