The head of horror mounted--and in the shield's
centre, full ten feet across, glowing, flickering, shining
out--coldly, was a rose of white flame, a "flower of cold fire" even
as Rador had said.
Now swiftly the Thing upreared, standing like a scaled tower a hundred
feet above the rift, its eyes scanning that movement I had seen along
the course of its lair. There was a hissing; the crown of horns fell,
whipped and writhed like the tentacles of an octopus; the towering
length dropped back.
"Quick!" gasped Rador and through the fern moss, along the path and
down the other side of the steep we raced.
Behind us for an instant there was a rushing as of a torrent; a
far-away, faint, agonized screaming--silence!
"No fear _now_ from those who followed," whispered the green dwarf,
pausing.
"Sainted St. Patrick!" O'Keefe gazed ruminatively at his automatic.
"An' he expected me to kill _that_ with this. Well, as Fergus O'Connor
said when they sent him out to slaughter a wild bull with a potato
knife: 'Ye'll niver rayilize how I appreciate the confidence ye show
in me!'
"What was it, Doc?" he asked.
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