But the coleoptera were obviously on guard. Two ranged ahead as scouts. Another pair closed up the rear, while one held to either side of the procession's line of march as outriders. The rest of the party stayed close-grouped about the girl. Again the blue man checked the rugged terrain, searching for some accident of ground that would give him the chance he needed. Ahead, the valley narrowed sharply, then divided. One of the two spurs, that on the left, was cramped and tortuous, a cleft-like gully. The other, smoother and wider, had walls so steep that it could not but force in the beetles covering the company's flanks. Haral breathed a fraction faster. Spurring the _hwalon_ forward, following the high ground and taking advantage of every rise and rift and clump of cover, he headed full-tilt for the narrow left spur of the divided valley, racing to reach it ahead of the coleoptera. * * * * * His mount strained to the task. Clawing through broken stone, around boulders, up a dozen near-sheer rock faces, it matched the pace of the beetles as they hurried along the infinitely smoother road that was the valley. Then, slowly, it began to pull ahead. Rear guard, main group, scouts--one after another, they were lost to the blue man's view as the great dragon surged to the fore. The last rise loomed. Haral pressed the _hwalon_ up it. A moment later, they were plunging perilously down the steep wall of the left spur. At the bottom, Haral wheeled the dragon to the right, back towards the spot where the two spurs came together. Riding swiftly to its mouth, he took up a position in a side crevice where boulders permitted him a view of the valley's main course, while at the same time screening him from the view of the coleoptera. A rattle of stones, the rustle of wing-sheaths, warned him of the beetles' approach. Seconds later, the two advance scouts came into view. Haral sat statue-still in the _hwalon's_ saddle. He shifted his grip closer to his lance's trigger. The scouts came abreast his hiding-place, so close he could catch their smell and see their ray-tubes' glitter. He held his breath. Then they passed on. Haral let out air. Mandibles clacking like deadly castinets, the outriders moved up. Again Haral froze. But they, too, passed, unheeding. Now louder sounds drifted to him. There was a whispering of hairy feet on sand; a slither of insectile bodies. And, through it, a silvery voice rose, singing. The main body of the coleoptera appeared. Kyla pocketed among them. Her hair was mud-caked now, and streaked and straggling. Her garments, too, were torn, and bruises and cuts showed through the rents. Yet still she sang her _Shamon_ song, head high and back unbending. And if she reeled and stumbled as she walked, it was weariness and not defeat that caused it. It came to Haral in that moment that even madness had its glory ... that even death could be worthwhile.