For a moment the sinewy, struggling tentacles relaxed, and just that moment the man was able to seize, or he had been lost. With a violent effort he flung himself free, and, having once more gained his feet,—his breath coming in hard, panting gasps,—stood awaiting the next attack.
Thus they stood, a strange group indeed, in the brilliant moonlight: The man, his rudely constructed mace uplifted, his head bent forward, a lurid glow in his eyes—the glow of the fell fury of desperation; the hideous spider-devil—swaying itself on its horrible tentacles as though for another spring upon its intended victim. Ha! it was coming!
The man stood ready, a tightening of the muscles of the arm that held the club, a lowering of the brows. On the part of the demon, a spasmodic contraction. Again it came at him.
Half rearing itself from the ground, its feelers waving in the air on a level with his face, propelling itself slowly forward, as though to make sure of its final rush, emitting the while a kind of soft breathing hiss. The aspect of the creature was so truly fearful, that the man, gazing upon it, was conscious of a kind of blasting influence stealing over him, beginning to paralyze nerve and effort alike—a feeling that it was useless to continue the struggle. The metal box could not save him twice. Yet, through all, was the certainty that to lose nerve for one moment was to lose life.
His will-power triumphed. He knew that did he once again get within grip of those ghastly tentacles he would never emerge alive. He swung up his improvised mace; the creature was now within twelve yards of him. He hurled the club; with terrific force it cleft the air, the massive band of gold which constituted its head lighting full upon one of the demon's eyes. For one moment the horror contracted into a heaving, writhing heap, frightful to behold, then, throwing out its grisly tentacles, it spun round and round as it had done before. The man's heart was beating as though it would burst. Was the thing slain, or in its vampire tenacity of life would it renew the combat? Ha!—was it coming again? Was it? One moment of the most unutterable suspense, and then—and then—the fearful thing drew back, turned round, and shoggled away in the direction whence it had come. It was worsted.
Save for a few scratches, Laurence was unhurt. He had almost miraculously escaped the creature's nippers. Yet now that he had won his hard-fought victory, a sort of rage took possession of him, an impulse to follow it up, to destroy this fell horror utterly. Growling a savage curse, he started in pursuit of the retreating monster, but hardly had he taken two steps forward than there floated to his ear a sound—a voice which seemed to fall from the sky itself. He stopped short in his tracks and stood immovable, statuesque, listening.