On rolled the metal convolutions, inexorable.
Within my vision's range there were no more fugitives.

Around a corner of the broken battlements raced the serpent Shape.

Where it had writhed was now no waving grain, no trees, no green thing.

There was only smooth rock upon which here and there red smears glistened wetly.
Afar there was a crying, in its wake a rumbling.

It was the column, it came to me, at work upon the further battlements.