The handle of his knife was wet with preparation. He dried his palm hastily on the sand, and then refreshed his grip. At least, he determined, thrusting out his jaw, he would die fighting - he would account for one among their number. Strange that he, a man, should feel such a savage satisfaction in the thought of striking down a beast and paving a death for a death. But would he be able actually to kill one of them?

The thick, loose hide was admirably adapted to make the tooth of an enemy slide from the chosen mark, and it was tough enough to turn all but keenest edge. Beneath that wire hair and loose, rolling hide, there were stone-hard muscles and strong bones. Only by luck, no matter how strong his arm and how sure his thrust, would he be able to cut through to life in a single stroke. And more than a single stroke, he well knew, he could not have. Before he could strike twice, those deadly teeth would be in his throat.