They were in darkness.  Chick took a step forward, but he was held back by MacPherson.

“Nay, lad; would ye be dyin’ so soon?  ’Tis fearful quick.  See—­”

He did not finish.  A red line of soldiers had rushed straight out of the blackness into the circle of light.  It seemed that they were charging the nimbus.  They were stooping now, discharging their queer weapons; about three hundred of them—­an inspiring sight.  They charged in determined silence.

Then—­Watson blinked.  The line disappeared; the thing was like a miracle.  It took time for Chick to realise that he was looking upon the “pink death” MacPherson had warned him against—­the work of the deherers, whatever the word meant.  For where had been a column of gallant guards there was now only a broad stream of pink liquid trickling over the ground.  It was annihilation itself—­too quick to be horrible—­inexorable and instantaneous.  Chick involuntarily placed himself in front of the Aradna.

“The blue thing in the middle,” observed the Irishman, coolly, “is th’ Palace av Light; ‘tis held by th’ Senestro jest now.  An’ all we got to do is get th’ ould doc out.”  “But I see no building!”

“‘Tis there jest the same.  Ye’ll see it whin th’ doctor gits time off his rainbows.  ’Tis absent-minded he gets when he’s on a problem, which same is mostly always, sor.  We stay roight here till he gets ready to drop on th’ Senestro.”

Watson waited.  He knew enough now to cling to the shadow, there with MacPherson, the Geos, and the Aradna.  In the centre of the great light-circle the nimbus of blue stood out like a vibrating haze, while all about, in the darkness, could be heard the weird sound made by the passage of life.

“When will the Jarados act?” inquired the Geos of the Irishman.  But he got no reply.  MacPherson spoke to Watson:  “Get yer gun ready, lad; get yer gun ready!  Look—­’tis th’ ould boy himself, now!  I wonder what the Senestro thinks of that?”

For the nimbus had suddenly dissolved, and in its place there appeared one of the quaintest, yet most beautiful buildings that Watson had ever seen.  It was a three-cornered structure, low-set, and of unspeakably dazzling magnificence; a building carved and chiselled from solid carbon.  Chick momentarily forgot the doctor.

In front of it stood a line of Blue Guards, headed by the Senestro.  Their confusion showed that something altogether unexpected had happened.  They were ducking here and there, seemingly bewildered by the sudden vanishing of that protecting blue dazzle.  The Senestro was trying to restore order; and in a moment he succeeded.  He led the way toward a low, triangular platform, at the entrance—­a single white door—­to the palace.

Pat MacPherson’s automatic flashed and barked.  Next instant Watson was in action.  The Bar next to the Senestro staggered, then collapsed against his chieftain.  Another rolled against his feet, causing him to stumble; an act that probably saved his life, for the platform in a second was covered with writhing, bleeding, dying Bars.