And like such a questioning brain calling upon others for counsel, it swung Ruth upward to the watching star at the right.
A rifle shot rang out.
Another--the reports breaking the silence like a profanation.

Unseen by either of us, Ventnor had slipped to one side where he could cover the core of ruby flame that must have seemed to him the heart of the Disk's rose of fire.

He knelt a few yards away, white lipped, eyes cold gray ice, sighting carefully for a third shot.
"Don't! Martin--don't fire!" I shouted, leaping toward him.
"Stop! Ventnor--" Drake's panic cry mingled with my own.
But before we could reach him, Norhala flew to him, like a darting swallow.

Down the face of the Disk glided the upright body of Ruth, struck softly, stood swaying.
And out of the blue-black convexity within a star point of one of the opened pyramids a lance of intense green flame darted, a lightning bolt as real as any hurled by tempest, upon Ventnor.
The shattered air closed behind the streaming spark with the sound of breaking glass.
It struck--Norhala.
It struck her.

It seemed to splash upon her, to run down her like water.
One curling tongue writhed over her bare shoulder and leaped to the barrel of the rifle in Ventnor's hands.