rd.

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
armoured thighs viselike against his right knee while over that knee
lay the small of the red dwarf's back.

For a second or two the Norseman looked down upon his enemy,
motionless in that paralyzing grip. And then--slowly--he began to
break him!

Lakla gave a little cry; made a motion toward the two. But Larry drew
her head down against his breast, hiding her eyes; then fastened his
own upon the pair, white-faced, stern.

Slowly, ever so slowly, proceeded Olaf. Twice Lugur moaned. At the
end he screamed--horribly. There was a cracking sound, as of a stout
stick snapped.

Huldricksson stooped, silently. He picked up the limp body of the
Voice, not yet dead, for the eyes rolled, the lips strove to speak;
lifted it, walked to the parapet, swung it twice over his head, and
cast it down to the red waters!

CHAPTER XXXIV

The Coming of the Shining One

The Norseman turned toward us. There was now no madness in his eyes;
only a great weariness. And there was peace on the once t