He struggled to free his pinioned arms, to wrench off the death-grip at his throat, but his efforts were like those of a child against a giant.

In a last terrible attempt he drew up his knees inch by inch under the weight of his enemy; it was his only chance, his only hope.

Even as he felt the fingers about his throat, sinking like hot iron into his flesh, and the breath slipping from his body, he remembered this murderous knee-punch taught to him by the rough fighters of the Inland Seas, and with all the life that remained in him he sent it crushing into the other's abdomen.

It was a moment before he knew that it had been successful, before the film cleared from his eyes and he saw his assailant groveling in the snow.

He rose to his feet, dazed and staggering from the effect of the blow on his head and the murderous grip at his throat.