"Curse it!" cried the leader. "The air's full of it up there.

If it keeps on at this pace long, it will stop us altogether."



An instinctive feeling, such as lines out a herd of deer at the

approach of some ambiguous thing, prompted them to turn their horses

to the wind, ride forward for a few paces, and stare at that advancing

multitude of floating masses. They came on before the wind with a sort

of smooth swiftness, rising and falling noiselessly, sinking to earth,

rebounding high, soaring--all with a perfect unanimity, with a still,

deliberate assurance.



Right and left of the horsemen the pioneers of this strange army

passed. At one that rolled along the ground, breaking shapelessly

and trailing out reluctantly into long grappling ribbons and bands,

all three horses began to shy and dance. The master was seized

with a sudden unreasonable impatience. He cursed the drifting globes

roundly. "Get on!" he cried; "get on! What do these things matter?

How CAN they matter? Back to the trail!" He fell swearing at his horse

and sawed the bit across its mouth.



He shouted aloud with rage. "I will follow that trail, I tell you!"

he cried. "Where is the trail?"



He gripped the bridle of his prancing horse and searched amidst

the grass. A long and clinging thread fell across his face, a grey

streamer dropped about his bridle-arm, some big, active thing

with many legs ran down the back of his head. He looked up to discover

one of those grey masses anchored as it were above him by these things

and flapping out ends as a sail flaps when a boat comes, about--

but noiselessly.



He had an impression of many eyes, of a dense crew of squat bodies,

of long, many-jointed limbs hauling at their mooring ropes to bring

the thing down upon him. For a space he stared up, reining in his

prancing horse with the instinct born of years of horsemanship.

Then the flat of a sword smote his back, and a blade flashed overhead

and cut the drifting balloon of spider-web free, and the whole mass

lifted softly and drove clear and away.



"Spiders!" cried the voice of the gaunt man. "The things are full

of big spiders! Look, my lord!"



The man with the silver bridle still followed the mass that drove away.



"Look, my lord!"



The master found himself staring down at a red, smashed thing

on the ground that, in spite of partial obliteration, could still

wriggle unavailing legs. Then when the gaunt man pointed to another

mass that bore down upon them, he drew his sword hastily. Up the



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