d before he could recover himself two other figures had
rushed upon him from out of the gloom. Their cries as they came at him
were like the cries of beasts. Philip had no time to use his club. From
his unbalanced position he flung himself upward and at the nearest of
his enemies, saving himself from the upraised javelin by clinching. His
fist shot out and caught the Eskimo squarely in the mouth. He struck
again--and the javelin dropped from the Kogmollock's hand. In that
moment, every vein in his body pounding 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.

He was still watchful, still guarding against a further attack, and
suddenly he whirled to face a figure that brought from him a cry of
astonishment and alarm. It was Celie. She was standin