the top of the slope too steep for aged men.  Slowly and painfully, harassed with agues and chills, the King rallied his aged army that tottered down the slope.  Slowly the King led back his warriors over whose heads had shrieked the triumphant years.  Year in, year out, they straggled southwards, always towards Zoon; they came, with rust upon their spears and long beards flowing, again into Astarma, and none knew them there.

HERE ENDS ‘SELECTIONS FROM THE WRITINGS OF LORD DUNSANY.’  FINISHED ON LADY DAY, IN THE YEAR NINETEEN HUNDRED AND TWELVE.