"No—no," he cried.
But the mere word of a god could never stop them now. They were hungry—they had fought for spoils and the spoils were theirs. They shouldered him aside, and went on... fresh—he had been resting. With one fell swoop he once more charged upon them, and tore them—broke them with his hands, broke their backs across his knees—cracked their skulls with a single blow. He swept them all before him, carrying the fight across the clearing. He seized one of the long poles and mowed them down like grain.
He was more than one man—he was ten. But he was only ten—no more...
Meantime, Neal's captors, determined on a little private vengeance, had trussed him up, or tried to. But that tough young man, having partially revived, permitted his captors—there were but two—to go just so far. Then he came to life, and applied the gentle art of jiu jitsu to each of them in turn. It was effective—and bone breaking.
Then Neal saw—and his heart leaped. Annette for the moment was desert. The fight was centered on the Bruté. Neal sprang to Annette, and with left fingers loosed her bonds. He lifted her gently to his shoulder and started off.
He was too late. For the fight with the Brute was over. For one instant the Brute had left open a vulnerable point—his defense had failed. With a mighty swing of a mighty war club, one of his antagonists dealt him a swinging, deadly blow upon  The Brute fell like a log. Then somebody saw Neal and Annie... Like a tidal wave, the whole crowd surged back to their fair victim. 