And as yet he dared not dart the light-beam into that pit of darkness, for fear of precipitating an unthinkable tragedy--if, indeed, the horror had not already been cons summated. But now Bremilu gripped his arm. Afar, on the other side of the thicket, they heard a singular commotion, cries, shouts, and the vigorous beating of the fern-trees. "The thing has turned, master!" the Merucaan exclaimed, at Allan's side. "Now throw the fire-death! Etvur! Quickly, throw!" Stern swept the thicket with his beam. "Ah! There--_there!_" The light caught a moving, hairy mass of brown--a huge, squat, terrible creature, its back now toward them. At one side Stern saw a vague blackness--the long, unbound hair of Beatrice! He glimpsed a white arm dangling limp; and in his breast the heart flamed at white-heat of rage and passion. But his hand was steel. Never in his life had he drawn so fine a bead. "Hold the light for me!" he whispered, passing it to his companion. "I want both hands for this!" Bremilu held the beam true, blinking strangely with his pink eyes. Stern, resting his pistol hand in the hollow of his left elbow, sighted true. A fraction of a hair to the left, and the bullet might crash through the brain of Beatrice! "Oh, God--if there be any God--speed the shot true--" he prayed, and fired. A hideous yell, ripping the night to shreds, burst in a raw and rising discord through the forest--a scream as of a damned soul flung upon the brimstone. Then, as he glimpsed the white arm falling and knew the thing had loosed its grip, the light died. Bremilu, starting at the sudden discharge close to his ear, had pressed the ivory button. Stern snatched for the flash-lamp, fumbled it, and dropped it there among the lush growths underfoot. Before he could more than stoop to feel for it a heavy crash through the wood told that the thing was charging. With bubbling yells it came, trampling the undergrowth, drumming on its huge breast, gibbeting with demoniac rage and pain--came swiftly, like the terrific things that people nightmares. Behind it, shouts echoed. Stern heard the voice of Zangamon as, spear in hand, the Merucaan pursued. He raised his revolver once more, but dared not fire. Yet only an instant he hesitated, in the fear of killing Zangamon. For, quick-looming through the darkness, a huge bulk, panting, snarling, chattering, sprang--an avalanche of muscle, bone, fur, mad with murder--rage. _Crack!_ spoke the automatic, point-blank at this rushing horror, this blacker shadow in the blackness. The fire-stab revealed a grinning white-fanged face close to his own, and clutching hands, and terrible, thick, hairy arms. Then something hurled itself on Stern; something bore him backward--something beside which his strength was as a baby's--something vast, irresistible, hideous beyond all telling. Stern felt the flesh of his left arm ripped up. Crushed, doubled, impotent, he fell.