The metal in his hand was no longer merely a whip of steel; it was a thing that lived with his own life.

His pulse beat in it.

It was a part of him.

His nervous force permeated it and animated it; it was his thought turned to tempered metal, and it was with the rapidity, directness and subtlety of thought that his sword responded to his mind.
"Come!" said Cleggett, as Loge broke ground, scarcely aware that he spoke aloud.

"At this rate we shall be at home thrusts soon!" Loge must have thought so too; a shade passed over his face, his upper lip lifted haggardly.