But hark! Didn’t you hear that deep rumble?
The sky is clear. It cannot have been the voice of the storm fiend.
Ha! again, deeper and clearer than before, that hoarse, low, muttering rumble, half-roar, half-growl comes borne along on the wings of the awakened breeze.
Lost! Lost! Lost!
It is the cry of the pursuers, it is the voice of the enemy!
Those children of the air are on my track. They follow me with leap and jump. What madness to think to outrun them. Let me halt and die like a man! Look how they bound along over the plain!
Swift and noiseless are their steps, phantoms that they are!
I halt. I turn. I grasp my fire-arm! Too late! A score of entangling nets envelope me! I struggle only to entwine myself the more, arms, hands, legs, feet, are twisted in wretched confusion.
I sway, fall, roll over, wrapped ’round and ’round in that dreadful tangle!
And now down upon my defenceless body comes a rain of sharp, stinging blows. Deep rumbling cries fill the air and keep time in a wild way with the showers of blows rained on my face and head and hands.