Almost as one, those two large, shaggy heads had turned, so swiftly that it seemed there had been no turning. They had been intent on the live animal bound on the spit. Then, almost as though there had been no movement, we were regarded. “No!” said Tyrtaios to me. “Do not!” His hand stayed mine. So the bright serpent of steel remained in its housing, tense. “No,” said Tyrtaios, again. I had not seen such eyes in beasts. They were large, rounded eyes, and they suddenly flashed like burnished copper, reflecting the firelight. They were crouched down. The legs seemed short for the body, but the body was long, and the arms were very long. There was something odd about the hands, or paws, but it did not then register with me what it might be. We had come on two beasts, in the woods. But there was a fire. Surely beasts do not build fires. But they were beasts. Why had a fire been built? A small beast squirmed, bound on a stick, or spit. Many shadows were about.
