Beside the two the swathed woman stood, looking out upon that slaughter, calm and still, shrouded with an unearthly tranquillity--viewing it, it came to me, with eyes impersonal, cold, indifferent as the untroubled stars which look down upon hurricane and earthquake in this world of ours. There was a rushing of many feet at our left; a wail from Chiu-Ming. Were they maddened by fear, driven by despair, determined to slay before they themselves were slain? I do not know. But those who still lived of the men from the tunnel mouth were charging us. They clustered close, their shields held before them. They had no bows, these men. They moved swiftly down upon us in silence--swords and pikes gleaming. The Smiting Thing rocked toward us, the metal tentacle straining out like a rigid, racing serpent, flying to cut between its weird mistress and those who menaced her. I heard Chiu-Ming scream; saw him throw up his hands, cover his eyes--run straight upon the pikes! “Chiu-Ming!” I shouted. “Chiu-Ming! This way!” I ran toward him. Before I had gone five paces Ventnor flashed by me, revolver spitting. I saw a spear thrown. It struck the Chinaman squarely in the breast. He tottered--fell upon his knees. Even as he dropped, the giant flail swept down upon the soldiers. It swept through them like a scythe through ripe grain. It threw them, broken and torn, far toward the valley's sloping sides. It left only fragments that bore no semblance to men. Ventnor was at Chiu-Ming's head; I dropped beside him. There was a crimson froth upon his lips. “I thought that Shin-Je was about to slay us,” he whispered. “Fear blinded me.” His head dropped; his body quivered, lay still. We arose, looked about us dazedly. At the side of the crevice stood the woman, her gaze resting upon Drake, his arms about Ruth, her head hidden on his breast. The valley was empty--save for the huddled heaps that dotted it. High up on the mountain path a score of figures crept, all that were left of those who but a little before had streamed down to take us captive or to slay. High up in the darkening heavens the lammergeiers, the winged scavengers of the Himalayas, were gathering. The woman lifted her hand, beckoned us once more. Slowly we walked toward her, stood before her. The great clear eyes searched us--but no more intently than our own wondering eyes did her. CHAPTER VI. NORHALA OF THE LIGHTNINGS We looked upon a vision of loveliness such, I think, as none has beheld since Trojan Helen was a maid. At first all I could note were the eyes, clear as rain-washed April skies, crystal clear as some secret spring sacred to crescented Diana. Their wide gray irises were flecked with golden amber and sapphire--flecks that shone like clusters of little aureate and azure stars.