It happened in an instant—­like the flash of a quick picture on a screen—­and even as Jan caught the last of Jackpine’s terrible face, his hand drove eight inches of steel toward O’Grady’s body.  The blade struck something hard—­something that was neither bone nor flesh, and he drew back again to strike.  He had struck the steel buckle on O’Grady’s belt.  This time—­

A sudden hissing roar filled the air.  Jan knew that he did not strike—­but he scarcely knew more than that in the first shock of the fiery avalanche that had dropped upon them from the rock wall of the mountain.  He was conscious of fighting desperately to drag himself from under a weight that was not O’Grady’s—­a weight that stifled the breath in his lungs, that crackled in his ears, that scorched his face and his hands, and was burning out his eyes.  A shriek rang in his ears unlike any other cry of man he had ever heard, and he knew that it was O’Grady’s.  He pulled himself out, foot by foot, until fresher air struck his nostrils, and dragged himself nearer and nearer to the edge of the chasm.  He could not rise.  His limbs were paralyzed.  His knife arm dragged at his side.  He opened his eyes and found that he could see.  Where they had fought was the smoldering ruin of a great tree, and standing out of the ruin of that tree, half naked, his hands tearing wildly at his face, was O’Grady.  Jan’s fingers clutched at a small rock.  He called out, but there was no meaning to the sound he made.  Clarry O’Grady threw out his great arms.

“Jan—­Jan Larose—­” he cried.  “My God, don’t strike now!  I’m blind—­blind—­”

He staggered back, as if expecting a blow.  “Don’t strike!” he almost shrieked.  “Mother of Heaven—­my eyes are burned out—­I’m blind—­blind—­”

He backed to the wall, his huge form crouched, his hands reaching out as if to ward off the deathblow.  Jan tried to move, and the effort brought a groan of agony to his lips.  A second crash filled his ears as a second avalanche of fiery debris plunged down upon the trail farther back.  He stared straight up through the stifling smoke.  Lurid tongues of flame were leaping over the wall of the mountain where the edge of the forest was enveloped in a sea of twisting and seething fire.  It was only a matter of minutes—­perhaps seconds.  Death had them both in its grip.

He looked again at O’Grady, and there was no longer the desire for the other’s life in his heart.  He could see that the giant was unharmed, except for his eyes.

“Listen, O’Grady,” he cried.  “My legs are broken, I guess, and I can’t move.  It’s sure death to stay here another minute.  You can get away.  Follow the wall—­to your right.  The slope is still free of fire, and—­and—­”

O’Grady began to move, guiding himself slowly along the wall.  Then, suddenly, he stopped.

“Jan Larose—­you say you can’t move?” he shouted.

“Yes.”

Slowly O’Grady turned and came gropingly toward the sound of Jan’s voice.  Jan held tight to the rock that he had gripped in his left hand.  Was it possible that O’Grady would kill him now, stricken as he was?  He tried to drag himself to a new position, but his effort was futile.