They fringed it, their mitres having a grotesque
appearance of watching what lay below. The glistening road lay
there--and from it came a shout. A dozen of the _coria_ clustered,
filled with Lugur's men and in one of them Lugur himself, laughing
wickedly!
There was a rush of soldiers and up the low hillock raced a score of
them toward us.
"Run!" shouted Rador.
"Not much!" grunted Larry--and took swift aim at Lugur. The automatic
spat: Olaf's echoed. Both bullets went wild, for Lugur, still
laughing, threw himself into the protection of the body of his shell.
But following the shots, from the file of moss heaps on the crest,
came a series of muffled explosions. Under the pistol's concussions
the mitred caps had burst and instantly all about the running soldiers
grew a cloud of tiny, glistening white spores--like a little cloud of
puff-ball dust many times magnified. Through this cloud I glimpsed
their faces, stricken with agony.
Some turned to fly, but before they could take a second step stood
rigid.
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