“Put these on.  The rest of us fight as we are.”

They were cloaks, made of a soft, light, malleable glass, or something like it.  Watson asked what they were for.

“For a purpose known only to the Jarados, my lord.  There are only two of these robes.  With them he left directions which indicated plainly they are for your lordship and the Aradna.”

Wondering, Chick helped the Aradna don her garment and then slipped into his own.  Nevertheless, he pinned more faith in the automatic in his pocket.  He did not make use of the hood which was intended to cover his head.

“Pardon me,” spoke the queen.  She reached over and extended the hood till it protected his skull.  “Please wear it that way, for my sake.  Nothing must happen to you now!”

Chick obeyed with only an inward demur.  What puzzled him most was the isolation.  Seemingly they were quite alone; there was nothing, no one, to oppose them.

But he had merely taken something for granted.  He, being from the earth, had assumed that strife meant noise.  It was only when the Aradna caught him by the arm, and whispered for him to listen, that he understood.

It was like a breeze, that sound.  To be more precise, it was like the heavy passage of breath, almost uninterrupted, coming from all about them.  And presently Chick caught a queer odour.

“What is it?” he breathed in the Aradna’s ear.

“It is death,” she answered.  “Cannot you hear them—­the deherers?”

She did not explain; but Watson knew that he was in the midst of a battle which was fought with noiseless and terribly efficient weapons—­so efficient that there were no wounded to give voice to pain.  Before he could ask a question a familiar voice sounded out of the darkness at his side.

“Where is the Geos?”

“Here, Bar MacPherson,” answered the Rhamda.

“Good!  It is well you came, sir.  We were discovered a few minutes ago; already we have lost many men.  Just give us the lights, so that we can get at them!  It is a waste of men, with the advantage all on their side.”

Then, lapsing into English for Chick’s benefit:  “’Tis welcome ye are!  Ivery mon helps, how.”

“What are these sounds?  You say they are fighting?”

“’Tis the deherers ye hear, lad.  They fight with silent guns.  Don’t let ’em hit ye, or ye’ll be a pink pool in the twinklin’ of yer eyelid.  ’Tis no joke.

“Are they more powerful than firearms?”

“I dinna say, lad.  But they’re th’ devil’s own weapon for fightin’.”

Chick did not answer—­he had heard a low command from the Geos.  Next instant the space before them was illuminated by clear white light, in the form of a circle—­bright as day.  In the centre shimmered an object like a mist of blue flame, a nimbus of dazzling, actinic lightning.  There was no sign of man or life, no suggestion of sound—­nothing but the nimbus, and the brilliant space about it.  The whole phenomenon measured perhaps three hundred feet across.