As it was, Gale carried the Lieutenant with him and struck over his head at Stark.
Poleon had leaped into the room at Burrell's heels, to receive the impact of a heavy body hurled backward into his arms as if by some irresistible force.

He seized it and tore it away from the thing that pressed after and bore down upon it with the ferocity of a wild beast.
He saw Gale reach over the Lieutenant's head and swing his arm, saw the knife-blade bury itself in what he held, then saw it rip away, and felt a hot stream spurt into his face.

So closely was the Canadian entangled with Stark that he fancied for an instant the weapon had wounded both of them for the trader had aimed at his enemy's neck where it joined the shoulder, but, hampered by the soldier, his blow went astray about four inches.

Doret glimpsed Burrell rising from his knees, his arms about the trader's waist, and the next instant the combatants were dragged apart.
The Lieutenant wrenched the dripping blade from Gale's hand; it no longer gleamed, but was warm and slippery in his fingers.

Poleon held Stark's gun, which was empty and smoking.
The fight had not lasted a minute, and yet what terrible havoc had been wrought! The gambler was drenched with his own blood, which gushed from him, black in the yellow flicker, and so plentifully that the Frenchman was befouled with it, while Gale, too, was horribly stained, but whether from his own or his enemy's veins it was hard to tell.