In the mound was a dreadful movement, a contortion; the bodies stiffened, seemed to try to rise, to push away--dead nerves and muscles responding to the blasting energy passing through them.
Out from the stars rained bolt upon bolt.

In the chamber was the sound of thunder, crackling like broken glass.

The bodies flamed, crumbled.
There was a little smoke--nauseous, feebly protesting, beaten out by the consuming fires almost before it could rise.
Where had been the heap of slain capped by the black eunuch there was but a little whirling cloud of sad gray dust.

Caught by a passing draft, it eddied, slipped over the floor, vanished through the doorway.
Motionless stood the blasting stars, contemplating us.

Motionless stood Norhala, her wrath no whit abated by the ghastly sacrifice.