He even found himself wondering how much longer
he could endure.
But his work was not yet finished. If he must die he would die
fighting.
Now, blending with fresh sounds of movement along the side walls,
another sound added its threat to the quiet of the room. It came from
behind the straw palliasse. There was heavy breathing, almost gasping.
There was a distinct gritting of teeth. But there was also a sound of
the effort which caused these things in the wounded man. There was a
sharp ripping and tearing, the rustle of straw and--something else.
The movements were hasty, desperately hasty. Movements which suggested
the defender's realization of the narrow limits of time before his
powers would become completely exhausted.
These things lasted a matter of seconds only. Then the threat broke.
The quiet was shocked into desperate action. There was the shout of
human voices. There was the rush and scramble of feet. Then, in the
midst of the tumult, a great tongue of flame leaped up from the heart
of the straw palliasse.
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