hat the thunder of their engines had ceased
to reverberate through the chamber, commanded that our fire should cease.

In the meantime the armed Martians outside the palace, hearing the
uproar within, seeing our men pouring their fire through the windows,
and supposing that we were guilty at once of treachery and assassination,
had attempted an attack upon the electrical ships stationed round the
building. But fortunately they had none of their larger engines at hand,
and with their hand arms alone they had not been able to stand up against
the disintegrators. They were blown away before the withering fire of
the ships by the hundred until, fleeing from destruction, they rushed
madly, driving their unarmed companions before them into the seething
waters of the flood close at hand.

Chapter XVII.

The Emperor Survives.

Through all this terrible contest the emperor of the Martians had remained
standing upon his throne, gazing at the awful spectacle, and not moving
from the spot. Neither he nor the frightened woman gathered upon the steps
of the throne had been injured by the disintegrators. Their immunity
was due to the fact that the position and elevation of the throne were
such that it was not within the range of fire of the electrical ships
which had poured their vibratory discharges through the windows, and we
inside had only directed our fire toward the warriors who had attacked us.

Now that the struggle was over we turned our attention to
Aina. Fortunately the girl had not been seriously injured and she was
quickly restored to consciousness. Had she been killed, we would have
been practically helpless in attempting further negotiations, because
the knowledge which we had acquired of the language of the Martians from
the prisoner captured on the golden asteroid, was not sufficient to meet
the requirements of the occasion.

The Emperor Our Prisoner.

When the Martian monarch saw that we had ceased the work of death, he
sank upon his throne. There he remained, leaning his chin upon his two
hands and staring straight before him like that terrible doomed creature
who fascinates the eyes of every beholder standing in the Sistine Chapel
and gazing at Michael Angelo's dreadful painting of "The Last Judgement."

This wicked Martian also felt that he was in the grasp of pitiless and
irresistible fate, and that a punishment too well deserved, and from
which there was no possible escape, now confronted him.