One struck a porter in the neck, one fixed itself in Alan's helmet without touching him, and no less than three hit Jeekie on the back and stuck there, providentially enough in the substance of the cork mattress that he still carried on his shoulders, which the feeble shafts had not the strength to pierce.
Everybody sprang up and with a curious fascination instead of attempting to do anything, watched the porter who had been hit in the neck somewhere in the region of the jugular vein.

The poor man rose to his feet with great deliberation, reminding Alan in some grotesque way of a speaker who has suddenly been called on to address a meeting and seeks to gain time for the gathering of his thoughts.

Then he turned towards that vast audience of the trees, stretched out his hand with a declamatory gesture, said something in a composed voice, and fell upon his face stone dead! The swift poison had reached his heart and done its work.
His three companions looked at him for a moment and the next with a yell of terror, rushed off into the forest, hurling down their loads as they ran.

What became of them Alan never learned, for he saw them no more, and the dwarf people keep their secrets.

At the time indeed he scarcely noticed their departure, for he was otherwise engaged.
One of their hideous little assailants, made bold by success, ventured to run across an open space between two trees, showing himself for a moment.