But the arms
relaxed about his neck. He rolled over and sprang to his feet.
Three or four paces from him was the Eskimo he had struck,
crawling toward him on his hands and knees, still dazed by the
blows he had received. In the snow Philip saw his club. He picked
it up and replaced the revolver in his pocket. A single blow as
the groggy Eskimo staggered to his feet and the fight was over.
It had taken perhaps three or four minutes--no longer than that.
His enemies lay in three dark and motionless heaps in the snow.
Fate had played a strong hand with him. Almost by a miracle he had
escaped and at least two of the Eskimos were dead.
He was still watchful, still guarding against a further attack,
and suddenly he whirled to face a figure that brought from him a
cry of astonishment and alarm. It was Celie. She was standing ten
paces from him, and in the wild terror that had brought her to him
she had left the bearskin behind. Her naked feet were buried in
the snow. Her arms, partly bared, were reaching out to him in the
gray Arctic dawn, and then wildly and moaningly there came to him--
"Philip--Philip--"
He sprang to her, a choking cry on his own lips.
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