The hammer struck glancing, the smith reeled from it and dropped his pike. Mancha threw away his weapon and took the swaying body in his arms. He was head and shoulders shorter, but the lift of his back was tremendous, and Ravenutzi was dizzy from the blow. Mancha had him down. The long legs and arms of the smith clung and bound him; they were down together and up again and down, rolling and writhing, as they turned in a heap. Mancha was aware of one of the Far-Folk running toward them frothed with rage, weapon lifted, but he would not loosen his hold nor look away from Ravenutzi. He expected a blow from behind, and then he heard the shock of men coming together that told him how the blow was intercepted. He had the smith down now and under him, and struggled to loose the binding arms. He heard a voice calling: “Mancha! Mancha!” and thought it was the voice of Lianth. Too young to come to battle, the boy had been allowed by Mancha’s friendship to run between the creek and the fighting men to bring stones, as they might be needed, to the slingsmen. Once he had heard the whistling of the slings, the lad had come bounding like an unbroke hound to bay around the skirts of the fight. “Mancha! Mancha!” said the voice, “I have him. He shall not get you.” “Good lad!” said Mancha, but he would not look away from the smith’s eyes lest he should lose the hint of motion in them. “Mancha, Mancha, I am hurt.” He heard the sounds of mortal agony in the fern, but they were not louder to him than the coming and going of his own breath. “Hold him,” he said to the voice behind him. He had his knee on the pit of the smith’s stomach and the arms were loosening. “Mancha!”—the voice was nearer—“he is dragging me. I cannot——” Mancha had one of Ravenutzi’s arms twisted under the smith’s own body and his own hand at the smith’s throat. “Mancha! Manc——” The voice broke with a bubbling sound. He had the smith’s windpipe under his thumb, he was shaking him and grinding his head into the earth. A hand from behind clutched upon his heel. He kicked out and heard a wet cough, followed by a groan, but he could not turn to see what came of it. He shook and wried the smith’s head as it blackened under his hand. “Where is she? Tell me where she is,” he cried, short and gaspingly. With every repetition of the word he lifted the smith’s head and ground it into the earth. He saw surrender in the bitten tongue and the protruding eyes. He rested a little, but as yet he would not spare the time to look behind him. Ravenutzi came slowly back to consciousness. “Tell me where she is.” The answer came thickly. “Far from here.” “Where, where——” There was a motion of the choking and grinding to begin again. “How can I tell you?... in a place known only to me.” “If I let you up will you take me to it?” “Breath,” said Ravenutzi, “give me breath.” Mancha let his throat be while he bound the man’s arms. “Do you promise, smith?” “What is that across my feet?”