My head struck sharply; I felt myself grow faint; Olaf fell beside me; I saw the green dwarf draw down the O'Keefe; he collapsed limply, face still, eyes staring.

A shout--and from the roadway poured a host of Lugur's men; I could hear Lugur bellowing.
There came a rush of little feet; soft, fragrant draperies brushed my face; dimly I watched Lakla bend over the Irishman.
She straightened--her arms swept out and the writhing vine, with its tendrilled heads of ruby bloom, five flames of misty incandescence, leaped into the faces of the soldiers now close upon us.

It darted at their throats, striking, coiling, and striking again; coiling and uncoiling with incredible rapidity and flying from leverage points of throats, of faces, of breasts like a spring endowed with consciousness, volition and hatred--and those it struck stood rigid as stone with faces masks of inhuman fear and anguish; and those still unstricken fled.
Another rush of feet--and down upon Lugur's forces poured the frog-men, their booming giant leading, thrusting with their lances, tearing and rending with talons and fangs and spurs.
Against that onslaught the dwarfs could not stand.

They raced for the shells; I heard Lugur shouting, menacingly--and then Lakla's voice, pealing like a golden bugle of wrath.
"Go, Lugur!" she cried.

"Go--that you and Yolara and your Shining One may die together! Death for you, Lugur--death for you all! Remember Lugur--death!" There was a great noise within my head--no matter, Lakla was here--Lakla here--but too late--Lugur had outplayed us; moss death nor dragon worm had frightened him away--he had crept back to trap us--Lakla had come too late--Larry was dead--Larry! But I had heard no banshee wailing--and Larry had said he could not die without that warning--no, Larry was not dead.