“Slay me! thou insignificant rat!” cried the scout in savage fury. “Even if we were friends I would have to pay thee for that dig in the ribs and the broken bow. But I scorn to take advantage of such a squirrel. Have at thee with my staff!”
Running at him as he spoke, the scout delivered a blow that would have acted like the hammer of Thor had it taken effect, but the seaman deftly dipped his head and the blow fell on a neighbouring birch, and a foot or so of the staff snapped off. What remained, however, was still a formidable weapon, but before the scout could use it he received another dig in the ribs which called forth a yell of indignation rather than of pain.
The appropriateness of the name squirrel now became apparent, for Maikar even excelled that agile creature in the rapidity with which he waltzed round the sturdy scout and delivered his stinging little blows. To do the scout justice, he played his part like a brave and active warrior, so that it seemed to rain blows and digs in all directions, and, once or twice, as by a miracle, Maikar escaped what threatened to be little, if at all, short of extermination. As in running, so in fighting, it is the pace that kills. After five minutes or so both combatants were winded. They separated, as if by mutual consent, and, leaning on their staves, panted vehemently.
Then at it they went again.
“Thou little scrap of a pig’s snout, come on,” shouted the scout in huge disdain.
“Thou big skinful of pride! look out!” cried Maikar, rendering the adoption of his own advice impossible by thrusting the butt of his staff against the scout’s nose, and thereby filling his eyes with water. At the next moment he rendered him still more helpless by bestowing a whack on his crown which laid him flat on the footpath.
A cheer behind him at that moment caused the little man to look round, when he found that the head of Gunrig’s column, led by Arkal, had come up just in time to witness the final blow.
They were still crowding round the fallen man, and asking hurried questions about him, when a voice from the heights above hailed them. Instantly a score or two of arrows were pointed in that direction.
“Hold your hands, men!” shouted Gunrig. “I know that voice—ay, and the face too. Is it not the white beard of our friend the Hebrew that I see?”
A few minutes more proved that he was right, for the well-known figure of Beniah descended the sides of the pass.