I saw a length of the wall of the square rush outward and upward.
I saw the shut half of the bronze-plated door skipping and hopping playfully toward us, and in front of it the figure of a man.

Then it began to rain all sorts of things.
For instance, stones, none of which hit us, luckily, and other more unpleasant objects.

It is a strange experience to be knocked backward by a dead fist separated from its parent body, yet on this occasion this actually happened to me, and, what is more, the fist had a spear in it.
The camels tried to rise and bolt, but they are phlegmatic brutes, and, as ours were tired as well, we succeeded in quieting them.
Whilst we were thus occupied somewhat automatically, for the shock had dazed us, the figure that had been propelled before the dancing door arrived, reeling in a drunken fashion, and through the dust and falling _debris_ we knew it for that of Oliver Orme.

His face was blackened, his clothes were torn half off him, and blood from a scalp wound ran down his brown hair.

But in his right hand he still held the little electric battery, and I knew at once that he had no limbs broken.
"Very successful mine," he said thickly.