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?”
She did not explain; but Watson knew that he was in the midst of a battle which was fought with noiseless and terribly efficient weapons—so efficient that there were no wounded to give voice to pain. Before he could ask a question a familiar voice sounded out of the darkness at his side.
“Where is the Geos?”
“Here, Bar MacPherson,” answered the Rhamda.
“Good! It is well you came, sir. 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. Don't let 'em hit ye, or ye'll be a pink pool in the twinklin' of yer eyelid. 'Tis no joke.