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It was like a breeze, that sound. To be more precise, it was like the heavy passage of breath, almost uninterrupted, coming from all about them. And presently Chick caught a queer odour. "What is it?" he breathed in the Aradna's ear. "It is death," she answered. "Cannot you hear them the deherers?"
We were discovered a few minutes ago; already we have lost many men. Just give us the lights, so that we can get at them! It is a waste of men, with the advantage all on their side." Then, lapsing into English for Chick's benefit: "'Tis welcome ye are! Ivery mon helps, how." "What are these sounds? You say they are fighting?" "'Tis the deherers ye hear, lad. They fight with silent guns.
The line disappeared; the thing was like a miracle. It took time for Chick to realise that he was looking upon the "pink death" MacPherson had warned him against the work of the deherers, whatever the word meant. For where had been a column of gallant guards there was now only a broad stream of pink liquid trickling over the ground.