"Oh, boy," the geologist said, "you're a better king than those heathen will see again, if they all live to be as old as Father Methuselah yonder says he is. But be careful, lad, be careful."
On the head of Ixstus the Goddess Glorian stood and pointed toward the camp of Bel-Ar, and her beautiful face grew stern.
"There are still three hours of daylight, Father Zoar," she said. "Let us go and finish what we have begun."
"As well now as ever, daughter," Zoar replied. "I am minded to teach this Maeronican king a lesson that shall become a tradition in the land. What passes in the camp? My eyes are too dim to see."
"Confusion, father, and the running to and fro of many men. They are adding to the height of their earthen walls. They are piling their gateways with timbers and the fragments of broken chariots."
Zoar laughed. "Think they with walls of mud to stop my amalocs?" he muttered. He lifted his voice, and word was passed down the line that the beasts were to be advanced against the camp.
Under the orders of Polaris, the dead zinds and men of his guard were borne off the field, and those who were still living, but wounded, were carried tenderly to the rear. When he learned that the amalocs were to attack the camp, he climbed with Zenas to the turret which the geologist had occupied. Jastla and the others he urged to seek rest. But they were men of great spirit, and only one or two of them went. The most of them sent for fresh horses, determined to see the fighting through to its end.
At a word from Glorian, Jastla took up the war-standard of Ruthar and passed it to the fighting men of Zoar, who set it fast in the wicker tower on the back of Ixstus. Glorian caught its floating folds and kissed it.
"Now Ixstus bears our banner. Who shall withstand it?" she said.
A blare of trumpets, a ruffle of drums, sounded the advance of Ruthar. Louder and above all arose the roar of the thirty amalocs, strident and deafening, as the shaggy, red line surged forward.