The four beasts have passed over us.

Bright fire leapt up along the line, rearing high in the air, a golden half circle of flame, through which the beasts could not pass.

The beasts passed by, paying her no more attention than they would a stump.

The beast passed over me, one claw ripping my jerkin.

Now a lumbering fear-shape at which to slam and bolt the doors, to say, What beast passes?

But where humanity had hidden and muttered What beast passes?

When the first beasts passed through, some days ago, there were heated protests.

The beast passed close enough for him to take a long look straight into the fiery, bottomless red pit of its left eye.

I waited until the last lumbering beast had passed and watched the men ride by.

And when a Pict stands motionless, the very beasts of the forest pass him without seeing him.