"My centre gallery?" shouted Bartimæus. "My centre gallery? I'll have my centre gallery clear."
He started burrowing straightway.
"Don't rush!" the Pygmy screamed behind. "Don't rush! It's death to rush!"
And yet it was his rush that saved him.
"Don't rush!" the Pygmy screamed behind
The crumbled earth which still lay in the bolt-hole, melted before it. Part slipped to either side of him. Part massed before his plunging head, and, reaching the clear downshaft, dropped. With it there dropped a stone—a rounded half-inch stone, which danced along the gallery at the foot, cannoned from side to side of it, spun round and pulled up short, six inches in advance of him. His senses signalled something in his path. His senses signalled a clear passage through it, and a clear space beyond it. His senses urged more pace. So he crashed on. He stubbed his hands against a ring of iron: the ring gave way: there was a snap and two iron jaws had gripped his waist. But for the stone which jammed against the clinch of them, he must have met his death. And death itself had scarcely brought more torture. It was as though the half of him sped on while half remained behind. The back wrench left him senseless, and so the Pygmy found him. It was the pit-pat of her on his fur, the cobweb flutter of her questionings, which roused him back to life.
His Fortress, his own Fortress, had been breached
"I'm done," he muttered, "done as sure as sure."