The pile of dead grew, and soon, of all the wolfish horde which had first attacked the fugitives, but a dozen were left. These, seeing that all was lost, that further fighting was in vain, turned to flee.
“Not one must escape!” roared the Ayuti, leaping forward in pursuit, and Seymour, translating the words to the American, followed him. Within five minutes not a savage remained on his feet. What the axe of the Ayuti had missed the rifle butts had accounted for.
For a few moments hereafter the three men stood leaning on their weapons, and now the two fugitives had a closer view of their splendid rescuer. Over seven feet he was in stature; his splendid limbs were left partly bare by the skin cloak which he wore suspended from one shoulder. His curling hair fell in rich masses to his shoulders, and his skin was little darker than the baronet’s own. The beauty of his features, his exquisitely-proportioned form, and the grace of his every movement made up a picture of god-like majesty, before which the two friends felt inclined to bow the knee.
Instead of doing this, however, Seymour held out his hand.
“Friend,” he said in Ayuti, and there was a strange break in his voice, “we cannot thank you for the service you have rendered us.”
“’Tis naught,” replied the Ayuti, grasping the proffered hand warmly; “I would that I might aid ye again. But, see, thy brothers still sleep. They must be awakened.”
An application of the spirit flask carried by Haverly quickly aroused the two senseless men. Then, while the American dressed the engineer’s wounded leg, Seymour told the Ayuti of the means of their coming to this weird land, and of all that had befallen them since.
A long recital it was, but deeply interesting, and the eyes of the giant glowed with admiration as the baronet proceeded.
“Ye are men indeed,” he cried, when the story was finished, and once more gripped Seymour’s hand. “Fairhair, thou and I must be brethren, for thou art a man after my own heart. What say ye?”