ion. Still his blood boiled and surged with savage enjoyment;
he was now yelling with the same frenzy that filled the wild men; pure
delight grew out of the fall of every opponent that went down under
his sword.

At last the Oolooz leader, a blood-covered savage as large as Pootoo,
led his men up to the breastworks, driving the defenders into the
trenches and down the gentle slope. Triumph was theirs apparently, and
their yelling was full of it. But inch by inch Pootoo fought them back.
Once the king looked helplessly at Hugh, as if praying for him as a god
to exert his influence in the unequal struggle. That glance was one of
entreaty, surprise, but Hugh could also see disgust in it. It stung him
strangely.

Although he had fought and killed more men than any one on either side,
perhaps, he had not gone forth from behind the breastworks; he was not
out in the thick of it. With a yell of encouragement to the men, he
flung himself over the little wall, alighting on the soft body of a
corpse. With his supporters at his heels he dashed to the king's side.
Inside of two minutes he was struck in the leg by a spear, his hand was
cut by a glancing blow from a club and his shield arm was battered so
fearfully that it required an effort to hold it in front of his body.
Blood streamed into his eyes and down his breast, his arms grew weak,
his blows were feeble, his knees trembled, and he was ready to drop.
Twice he went to his knees only to stagger to his feet again. Three
times Pootoo's mighty club beat down warriors who were about to
brain him.

His mind was chaotic, filled with the now certain defeat and the
heart-breaking thought that Lady Tennys would be left to the mercies of
the victors. Tears were mingling with the blood; his very soul was
crying for strength, for hope, for salvation. In his din-stricken ears
ran that wail: "What will become of me if you are killed?" Her face
seemed to float in front of his eyes, her voice came trembling and
lulling and soft through the hellish sounds, piercing the savagery with
gentle trustfulness, urging him to be brave, strong and true. Then Grace
Vernon's dear face, dim and indistinct, lured him forward into the
strife, her clear voice, mingling with the plaintive tones of the
other, commanding him to come to her. He must win! He must win!

But the great horde of Oolooz warriors were at last breaking down the
smaller force and all seemed lost.

Suddenly new life sprang up among