Three Vairking common soldiers and Crota and Myles now confronted seven Roies. This constituted a fairly even match, for the superior intelligence and the leather armor of the men of Vairkingi and Sur, offset the greater numbers of their aboriginal antagonists. What the outcome would have been can never be known, for at that moment, the reinforcements from the village came charging up the ravine; and at the same instant, the tops of the cliffs were lined with Roies, who sent a shower of arrows upon those below.
The contending twelve immediately separated. Cabot and his followers passed within the protection of his rescuers and the return to Sur was renewed. The commander of the rescue party threw out a strong rear guard, and the Vairking archers on both flanks peppered the cliff tops with sling shots and arrows, but the marauding Roies harassed every step of the retreat.
There was some respite when Cabot’s party reached the plain where stood the rocky peak with the village of Sur on its summit, for arrows could not carry from the cover of the surrounding woods to the foot of the rocks. But, as the tired party began the ascent of the narrow path on the face of the cliff, they noted that the Roies were forming solid banks of wooden shields and were advancing across the plain.
Arrows now began to fly from below at the ascending Vairking party, several of whom toppled and fell down the face of the cliff. And then the warrior just above Myles on the narrow path clutched his breast with a gasp and dropped square upon the earth-man, who braced himself and caught the body, thus preventing it from being dashed to pieces at the foot of the rocks.
Whether or not the furry soldier was dead could not be ascertained until Myles should have reached the summit, so up he toiled with his burden until he gained the protection of the palisade, where he laid the Vairking gently on the ground and tore open his leather tunic to see if any life were present.
The wounded man still breathed, though hoarsely, and his heart still beat; but there was a gaping hole in one side of his chest.
No arrow protruding from this hole. Myles tenderly turned the man over to see if the wound extended clear through. It did—almost. And from the man’s side there projected the tip of a bullet, the steel-sheathed tip of a leaden rifle bullet!
Myles quickly extracted the bullet from the back of the wounded Vairking. Then tender furry female hands bore the victim away, as the earth-man stood in thoughtful contemplation of his find.
There could be no doubt of it. This was a steel-jacketed bullet, identical with those used in the rifles of the ant-men. How came such a weapon in the hands of the savage and untrained Roies?
It was inconceivable that these uncultured brutes had overwhelmed New Formia and captured the weapons of the ant-men. No, the only possible explanation was that the Formians had formed an alliance with the Roies, and were either fighting beside them or at least had furnished them with a few firearms, the use of which they had taught them.
But this last idea was improbable, due to the well-known shortage of rifles and ammunition at Yuriana, capital of the new ant empire. No, if the ant-men were in alliance with these furry savages, there must be ant-men present with the besiegers, and the shot in question must have been fired by the claw of a Formian.
This opened up new terrors for the village of Sur and its inhabitants. Myles glanced apprehensively at the southern sky, half expecting to see and hear the approach of a Formian plane, but the radiant silver expanse was unmarred by any black speck. Sur was safe for the moment.
His musings thus completed, Myles hurried to the public hall to communicate this discovery to Crota and the village authorities. He found the headman already there in conference with Crota.
Said Myles, exhibiting the bullet: “Here is one of the magic stones thrown by one of my own magic sling-shots, which is capable of shooting from the ground to the top of your cliffs and even penetrating your palisade. It is big magic! With its aid, the Roies can overcome us. Without it, I am powerless. Therefore, we must secure possession of it. What do you suggest?”
Crota replied: “It is now sunset. Let us select a squad of picked scouts and try to stalk the camp of the enemy.”
“No, no!” the headman of Sur exclaimed in horror. “Never have our men dared to attack the Roies by dark.”
“Do the Roies know this?” Myles asked with interest.
“Most certainly,” was the reply.
“Then,” he said, “all the more reason for attempting it They will be unprepared.”
The magistrate shrugged his furry shoulders with: “If you can persuade any men of Sur to attempt anything so foolhardy, I shall interpose no objection.”
Within a twelfth of a day, Crota had enrolled twenty scouts, and with Myles Cabot, they had all begun the stealthy descent of the narrow winding path down the face of the cliff. Before starting, they had observed the direction of the Roy camp-fires on one of the surrounding hills; so now they crept quietly toward that hill, and then slowly up to its crest.
In spite of the dense blackness of the Porovian night, they were able to find their way, first by starting in the correct direction and then by keeping the lights of their own village always behind them.
As Cabot had expected from the remarks of the headman, there were no sentinels on post, for the enemy were quite evidently relying on the well-known Vairking fear of the unknown terrors of the dark. Indeed, it spoke volumes for the individual courage of the twenty-one members of this venture, and for their confidence in their earth-man leader, that they had dared to come.
Finally, the party emerged from the underbrush at the top of the hill, a few score of feet from the tents and camp-fires of the Roies. There, motioning the others to remain where they were until he gave a signal, Myles crawled forward, always keeping in the shadow of some tent, until he was able to peek through a small bush beside one of the tents, directly at the group around one of the camp-fires.
Just as Cabot arrived at this observation post, a Roy warrior was declaiming: “I told you it would work, for had I not seen it demonstrated fully to me? You yourselves saw it kill. Now will you not believe me?”
Another spoke: “I cannot understand its principle. How can a weapon kill afar, and yet not resemble either a sling or a bow?”
And another: “Show us how it works, friend. Then perhaps we may be persuaded.”
And a third: “I do not believe that he has it.”
Whereat, the original speaker, nettled, spoke again: “It is in my tent there, you doubters,” indicating the one beside which Cabot crouched.
Quick as a flash, Cabot wriggled beneath the back of the tent into its interior. The campfire light, penetrating through the slit opening in front, revealed nothing but rumpled blankets on the floor, and ordinary weapons slung to the tent pole; so the intruder commenced rummaging among the bedding. The conversation outside continued.
“Prove, or be silent!” said a voice.
“You saw the Vairking fall, did you not?” the original speaker replied.
“True, but I did not see you sling any pebble.”
Meanwhile, Cabot continued his frantic search. At last, it was rewarded. In one corner of the tent, his groping fingers closed upon a Formian rifle and a bandolier of cartridges. A thrill ran through him at the touch.
“To prove it to you,” the voice outside was saying, angrily, “I will get it for you; and if you do not believe me, I shall slingshot you with it.Thatought to be proof enough even for a stupid one like you. I have said it!”
“The signal for my exit,” Myles said to himself, as he hastened to crawl out through the back of the tent, but then he reflected: “No, I want more than this gun and ammunition; I want information.”
So he remained.
As the Roy entered the tent and felt for the rifle, the crouching earth-man flung himself upon him; and before the startled furry one could utter even a gasp, strong fingers closed upon his windpipe, throttling off all sound. The struggle was over in a few moments.
When Myles Cabot finally crept out of the enemy tent, it was with a limp form under one arm, and a bandolier and a rifle slung across his shoulders.
The conversation at the camp fire continued.
One of the warriors was saying: “Our friend takes long to find his wonderful sling-shot. Methinks he was lying and does not dare to face us.”
Said another voice: “Let us pull him from his tent and confront him with his perfidy.”
At this, Myles sprang to his feet and ran to the cover which concealed his followers.
“Rush in among them as we planned,” he urged, “while you two come with me.”
Then on he sped down the hillside towards the lights of Sur with his captive and trophies and two previously-picked members of the band, while Crota and the remaining eighteen charged yelling into the midst of the Roy camp, upsetting tents, scattering camp fires, and laying about them with their swords. Straight through the camp they charged, shouting: “Make way for Att the Terrible!” Then they circled the hill under cover of the darkness and rejoined Myles.
The startled Roies were taken completely by surprise. From the cries of Crota and his followers, they assumed that the intruders were Roies, partisans of Att the Terrible, attacking them for being partisans of Grod the Silent. As they came rushing out of their standing tents, or crawled from beneath such tents as had been wrecked, they met others of their own camp, similarly rushing or crawling, and mistaking them for enemies, started to fight.
The confusion was complete, and never for a moment did the naked furry savages suspect that the whole trouble had been caused by a mere handful of Vairkings.
Truly, as Poblath the Philosopher has said, “While enemies dispute, the realm is at peace.”
While the Roy followers of Grod the Silent fought among themselves until they gradually discovered that there was no one there except themselves, Myles Cabot and his Vairkings safely regained the Village of Sur with the rifle, the ammunition, and the still unconscious Roy warrior.
In the public hall, under the tender ministrations of Vairking maidens—who would far rather have plunged a flint knife into him—the captive finally regained his senses and looked around him in bewilderment.
“Where am I?” he asked, rubbing his eyes.
“In Sur,” some one replied.
“Then are we victorious? For never before has a Roy set foot in Sur.”
“No, your forces are not victorious,” Crota answered. “You are a prisoner. And it is only by the grace of Cabot the Minorian that you are permitted to come here even as a prisoner. For the men of Sur take no prisoners, and give no quarter.”
In reply, Myles himself stepped forward.
“I myself, am Cabot the Minorian,” he said.
To which Crota added impressively: “The greatest magician of two worlds!”
The prisoner shook his head.
“I know of only one world,” he asserted, “and this man before me is dressed as a mere common soldier, as are all of you.”
“Know then, O scum of Poros,” the earth-man admonished, “that there are other worlds beyond the silver skies, and that in the world from which I come, all soldiers are gentlemen.”
But the Roy warrior was not to be subdued by language. “How did I come here?” he asked.
“You did not come here,” Myles answered. “You were brought. I brought you.”
“But how?”
“By magic.”
“What magic?”
“My magic cart which swims through the air as a reptile swims through the waters of a lake.”
“True,” the Roy mused, “there be such aerial wagons, for I have seen them near the city of the beasts of the south.”
“Mark well!” Myles interjected to the assembled Vairkings, then to the prisoner again: “I captured you because you possessed the magic sling-shot, and presumed to use it on one of my own men. This effrontery could not be permitted to go unpunished; hence your capture. The offending weapon is now mine, and you are my prisoner.”
“What do you propose to do with me?” the captive asked. “I propose to ask you some questions,” Myles evaded. “First where did you get the magic sling-shot?”
“The great magician knows everything,” the Roy replied, with a sneer. “Why, then, should I presume to tell him anything?”
But the earth-man remained unruffled. “You are correct,” he countered. “I ask, not because I do not already know, but because I wish to test whether it is possible for one of your degraded race to tell the truth.”
“Why test that?” came back the brazen Roy, “for doubtless you, who know everything, know that, too.”
Myles could not help admiring the insulting calm with which this furry man of inferior race confronted his relentless captors.
“Who are you, rash one?” he asked.
The prisoner drew himself up proudly, with folded arms, and answered: “I am Otto the Bold, son of Grod the Silent.”
“Ah,” Myles said, “the son of a king. And I am the father of a king. Well, then, as one man to another, tell me where you got this gun.”
“Gun?” Otto queried. “Is that the name of this weapon of bad omen? Know then that I got it from you yourself when I wounded you beneath the tree beside the brook at the foot of the mountains, before the Vairkings of Jud the Excuse-Maker drove me off. I have spoken!”
“And spoken truly,” Cabot replied, concealing his surprise with difficulty. Of course. Why had he not guessed it before? But there were still some more points to clear up, so he continued: “Why did you shoot those two arrows at me in the house at the top of the mountains?”
“Because we wished to explore the house. But you killed my companion, whereupon I resolved to kill you in revenge, and to capture the noisy ‘gun’—and is that the right word? So I trailed you. The rest you know.”
“Remember, I knoweverything,” Myles said, grinning. “But did you ever see any one but me shoot the gun?”
“You know I never did,” was the reply. “No one on Poros, save Cabot the Magician and Otto the Bold, has ever done this big magic. I saw the results, but not the means, when you killed my companion; so I experimented for myself after I had stolen your gun, and soon I learned how, after which I carefully conserved the magic stones until last night when I shot one of the Vairkings of Sur, so as to give visible proof of my magic powers to my doubting comrades.”
The earth-man heaved a sigh of relief. There existed as yet no alliance between the Formians and the Roies. Pray Heaven that such a calamity would never suggest itself to the minds of either race; for if so, then woe to Vairkingia!
“Son of a king,” he said, “return to your people and your father. Give him my greetings, and tell them that you are the friend of a great magician, who lent you his ‘gun’, who transported you through the air within the walls of Sur, where no Roy has ever stood or will ever stand, and who last night caused phantom warriors to attack your camp under the guise of followers of Att the Terrible. Go now. My men will give you safe conduct to the plain below.”
“And what is the price of this freedom?” Otto disdainfully inquired.
“The friendship of a king’s father for a king’s son,” Myles Cabot replied with dignity.
The two drew themselves up proudly and regarded each other eye-to-eye for a moment.
“It is well,” Otto the Bold declared. “Good-by.” And he departed under the escort of a Vairking guard.
“The master knows best,” Crota remarked, sadly shaking his head, “but I should have run the wretch through the body.”
The next morning Cabot thanked the headman of Sur for his hospitality, and took up the return trail for Vairkingi, the vacancies in his ranks being filled by the loan of soldiers from Sur. The party had gone but a short distance when they found the way barred by a formidable body of Roies. But before these came within bow-shot a bullet from Cabot’s rifle brought two of them to the ground, whereupon the rest turned and fled precipitately.
Later in the day a bend in the road brought them suddenly upon a furry warrior. Myles fired, and the man instantly fell to the ground. But when they reached the body there was not even a scratch to be found on it; the bullet had missed.
“Dead of fright,” Myles thought; but no, for the heart was still beating, although faintly, and the lungs were still functioning.
“Sit up there!” Myles ordered.
“Can’t,” The Roy replied. “I’m dead.”
“Then I’ll make you alive again,” his captor declared, placing his hands on the head of the Roy. “Abra cadabra camunya.”
Thereat the soldier sat up with a sigh of relief, and opened his eyes.
“Stand up!” Myles ordered.
For reply the Roy jumped to his feet and started running for cover.
“Halt!” the earth-man commanded. “Halt, or I’ll kill you again!”
The man stopped.
“Return!”
The man returned, like a sleep walker.
“What do you mean by running away? Now listen intently. Are you one of the men of Grod?”
“Yes.”
“Then go to Otto, the son of Grod, and tell him that it is the order of Cabot the Magician that Vairking expeditions into these mountains, in search of golden cubes and other minerals, be unmolested. Tell Otto that he can recognize my expedition by the blue flags which they will carry hereafter. Now go. I have spoken.”
The Roy warrior ran up the trail and this time was not halted.
“Another mistake,” Crota remarked, half to himself.
The rest of the return to Vairkingi was without event. On the way the radio man made notes of the best deposits of quartz, limestone, and fluorspar. Also he carried with him a few large sheets of mica. But he found no traces of galena, zinc ore, or platinum. These would require at least one further expedition.
Crota spared no extravagant language in relating to Jud the exploits of Cabot the Minorian in raising the siege of the village of Sur; and Jud repeated the story with embellishments to Theoph the Grim. Also the long deferred sleight-of-hand performance was held at the palace, to the great mystification of the white-furred king.
Arkilu did not show up to mar the occasion. In fact, little Quivven reported that her sister was very indignant at the earth-man for trifling with her affections, and had turned to Jud in her pique. Needless to say, Jud had taken every possible advantage of Cabot’s absence to reinstate himself with the chestnut-furred princess. But neither Myles nor Quivven appeared to exhibit any very great sorrow at this turn of affairs.
So long as Arkilu’s hostility did not become active, the support of Jud and Theoph ought to prove quite sufficient.
The standing of Cabot the Minorian as a magician was now well established, and accordingly Jud the Excuse-Maker and even Theoph the Grim were willing to accord him all possible assistance in the gathering of the materials with which he was to perform his further magic, namely radio.
Theoph made a levy upon all the nobles, and turned over to the earth-man upward of five hundred soldiers with their proper carts and equipment. Jud (himself,) Quivven (still unknown to her father), and Crota (the soldier who had demonstrated on the expedition an intelligence far above his social class), were enrolled as laboratory assistants. Several inclosures adjoining Cabot’s yard were vacated and converted into factories, in one of which were mounted a pair of huge millstones such as the Vairkings use in grinding certain of their food.
Myles divided his men roughly into three groups. One group, under Crota, he established at the clay deposits to the northeast of the city, to make bricks and charcoal.
The second group, under Jud, were engaged in the mining operations, digging copper ore, quartz rock, fluorspar, limestone, and sand, at various points in the mountains, and carting some of the limestone to the brickyard, and the rest with the other products to Vairkingi. The carters carried back with them to the mountains all the necessary supplies for the expeditions.
The third group, under Quivven, were engaged in setting up the grist mill, and in other building and preparatory operations.
At the claypits the first operation was to scrape off the surface clay and spread it out thin in the open air, so it would age fast.
The limestone, upon its arrival at the brickyard, was burned in raw brick ovens, and then carted to Vairkingi, to be ground at the mill. It was then shipped back to the brick plant, where it was mixed with the aged clay—first screened—molded into bricks, baked, burned, and carted to Vairkingi, to be ground into cement.
Some of the ground limestone was retained at Vairkingi for use in later glass-making, and some of the unground for smelting purposes.
Other aged clay was screened, moistened, molded, and baked to form ordinary brick. Fire-brick was similarly made by the addition of white sand finely ground at Vairkingi, but this kind of brick had to be baked much more slowly.
Thus only a week or two after this whole huge industrial undertaking had begun, the radio man was in possession of fire-brick and fire-clay with which to start the building of the smelting furnaces.
Meanwhile Myles Cabot, with a small bodyguard, kept traveling from one job to another, giving general superintendence to the work. And when everything was well under way he set out on another exploring expedition in search of galena, zinc ore, and platinum.
Quivven had furnished the inspiration for this trip by suggesting that the sparkling sands of a large river, which ran from west to east, about a day’s journey north of Vairkingi, might contain the silver grains which he sought. So thither he set out one morning, with camping equipment and a detachment of soldiers.
All day they marched northward across the level plains. Toward evening they reached a small estuary of the main stream, and there they camped.
As the silver sky pinkened in the west Myles Cabot ran quickly down this brook to inspect the sands of the river, which lay but a short distance away.
The pink turned to crimson, and then purple. The darkness crept up out of the east, and plunged the whole face of the planet into velvet and impenetrable black. But Myles Cabot did not return to the camping place.
When Myles Cabot left his encampment beside the little brook, he hastened down stream to where the brook joined the big river, along the edge of which there stretched a sandy beach. Falling on his knees, he picked up handful after handful of the silver sands.
There was still plenty of daylight left for him to examine the multitude of shiny metallic particles.
There could be no doubt of it, these sands held some metal which could be separated out in much the same manner as that in which the California gold miners of 1849 used to wash for gold, but only time would tell whether or not this metal was the much-to-be-desired platinum which the radio man needed for the grids, filaments, plates, and wires of his vacuum tubes.
On the morrow he would wash for this metal, using the wooden pans which he had brought for that purpose. The precious dust he would carry back to Vairkingi, melt it into small lumps if possible, and then try to analyze its composition in his laboratory.
As he sat on the sandy beach and thus laid his plans, his thoughts gradually wandered away from scientific lines, and he began again to worry about Lilla.
It was many days since she had sent the S O S which had recalled him from earth to Poros. Whatever she had feared must have happened by now. It was possible that he would never be able to effect a return to Cupia. Why not then accept the inevitable, settle down permanently among the Vairkings, and solace himself as best he could?
Even an ordinarily stalwart soul would have done his best and have been satisfied with that. But Myles Standish Cabot possessed that indomitable will which had given rise to the Porovian proverb: “You cannot kill a Minorian.”
To such a man, defeat was impossible. Hewouldrescue the Princess Lilla in the end; that was all there was to it.
So he laid his plans with precision, as he sat on the sandy shore of the Porovian river in the crimsoning twilight.
Before the velvet darkness completely enveloped the planet, the earth-man arose from the sands, and began his return up the valley of the little estuary. But, as he was hurrying along, and was passing through a small grove of trees, a dark form noiselessly dropped on him from above.
The creature lit squarely upon his back, wrapping its furry legs around his abdomen and its furry arms around his neck. Although taken completely by surprise, Cabot wrenched the creature’s feet apart and then threw it over his head as a bucking broncho would throw a rider, a jiujitsu trick which he had learned from one of the Jap gymnasts at college.
The Roy, for that is what Cabot’s assailant proved to be, scrambled quickly to his feet, although a bit stunned, and crouched, ready to spring at him again. The earth-man planted his feet firmly apart, clenched his fists, and awaited the onslaught; then, when the creature charged, he met him on the point of the jaw with a well-aimed blow. Down crashed the furry one!
Cabot was rubbing his bruised knuckles and viewing his fallen antagonist with some satisfaction, when suddenly he was seized around the knees from behind, and was hurled prone by one of the neatest football tackles he had ever experienced.
Squirming quickly to a sitting position, he dealt the Roy who held his legs a stinging blow beside the ear. The grip on his knees loosened, and he was just about to scramble erect, when a third assailant caught him around the throat and pulled him over backward. Then scores of these furry savages swarmed upon him from every side. Yet still he fought, until his elbows were pinioned behind his back, his eyes were blindfolded, and a gag was placed between his teeth.
Thereupon, he ceased struggling, not because there was no fight left in him, but rather because he wisely decided to save his strength for some time when he might really need it. So he offered no further resistance when he was picked up and thrown across a pair of brawny shoulders, and carried off, he knew not whither.
Finally, after what seemed many hours, he was unceremoniously dumped onto the ground, and then jerked roughly to his feet.
His bandage was snatched off, and he found himself standing in the center of a circle of flares, confronting a large, squat, and particularly repulsive gray-furred Roy, who sat with some pretense of dignity upon a round boulder in front of him. Beside him stood another Roy, evidently the one who had brought him thither.
This one now spoke. “See the pretty Vairking which I have brought you.”
“If that’s a Vairking,” the fat one remarked, “then I’m my own father.”
“If heisn’ta Vairking,” the other countered, “then why does he wear Vairking leather armor? Answer me that.”
“Vairking or not,” the fat one declared, “he will do very nicely to string up by the heels and shoot arrows at. For quite evidently, he is no Roy. What say you to that, my fine target?”
The guard removed the gag.
“I say,” Myles evenly replied, “that you had better not take any such liberties with me.”
“And why not, furless?” the seated Roy sneered.
“First, let me askyoua question,” Myles said. “Who is King of the Roies, Grod the Silent or Att the Terrible?”
“Grod the Silent, most assuredly. Why do you ask?”
“And do you know Prince Otto, his son?”
“Otto the Bold? Most assuredly.”
“Know then,” the captive asserted, “that I am no Vairking, but rather a Minorian, which is a sort of creature I venture you have never met before. Furthermore, I am a particular personal friend of Otto the Bold. He will not thank you to string up Cabot the Minorian by the heels, and shoot arrows into him. I demand that I be taken before Prince Otto.”
Thereat the fat Roy smiled a crafty smile. “I shall take you before Att the Terrible,” he said.
It thus became evident that this fat chieftain had falsely asserted his belief in the kingship of Grod for the purpose of securing from Myles an admission as to which side the earth-man favored.
The rest of the night Myles spent on a pile of smelly bedding in a tent. He was still bound, and was kept under constant surveillance by a frequently changing guard. By morning, his arms below the elbows had become completely numb, in spite of his having loosened his bonds somewhat by straining against them.
When the velvet night had given place to silver day, the guard brought some coarse porridge in a rough stone bowl, which he held to the prisoner’s lips until it was all consumed. Myles thanked him politely, and then asked if he would mind chafing the numbed arms.
For reply, the soldier kicked him savagely.
“Get up!” he ordered. “The time is here to start the march. You’ll wish the rest of you were numb, too, when Att the Terrible starts shooting arrows into your inverted carcass.”
Presently, Myles was driven into the open, the tents were struck and loaded onto carts—probably stolen from the Vairkings—and the furry warriors took up the march, with their prisoner in their midst. The fat chief alone rode in a cart; all the others walked.
By straining at the thongs which bound his arms, Myles further loosened them sufficiently to relieve the pressure on his blood vessels, and then by wiggling his fingers, he managed finally to restore the circulation.
After that he began to take some interest in his surroundings.
His captors were a coarse-looking lot of brutes, with long gangling arms, thickset necks, low foreheads, and prognathous jaws. In general, they more closely resembled the anthropoid apes of the earth than they resembled the really human, although furred Vairkings.
Their weapons—wooden spears and swords, and flint knives—were like those of the Vairkings, only cruder. They marched without any particular order or discipline, and jested coarsely with each other as they ambled along.
After taking in all this, Myles next turned his attention to the country through which they were passing. The trail led upward into mountains. This at once aroused his interest. Here and there he noted what he felt sure must be zinc-blende. Yes, and cropping out of the rocks on the left was an unmistakable rosette of galena crystal!
The radio man was sincerely glad that he had been captured. And so he even joked jovially with the soldiers around him, until they became quite friendly.
At one point, their route lay across a foaming mountain stream, by means of a log bridge. As they were crossing over, one of the furry soldiers had the misfortune to stumble, and in another instant completely lost his footing and plunged headlong into the stream below. He happened to be one who had recently become particularly chummy with the captive.
“Poor fellow,” one of the guard casually remarked. “It’s too bad he can’t swim.”
“Ican,” Myles shouted. “Quick, some one cut my cords!”
And, before any one could interfere, a young and impetuous Roy had drawn his knife and severed the earth-man’s bonds, thus permitting him to dive after the poor creature who was rapidly being washed down stream by the swift current.
It had all happened in an instant. A few swift strokes brought Myles up to the other. But it became no easy matter to reach the shore. However, the troop of Roies showed much more interest in regaining their captive, than they had shown in rescuing their comrade; and thus, by the aid of their spears, finally dragged the two ashore.
Then Cabot was bound again, and the march resumed. The carts had detoured, and so the fat chief had not seen the episode.
“Better not tell him, any one,” one of the guard admonished, “or it will go hard with the youngster. Our leader would not relish any chance of not being able to present this furless Vairking to Att the Terrible.”
“And will Att shoot arrows into me?” Myles asked.
“Most assuredly.”
Myles thought to himself: “I guess they are right, especially if Att knows how I was befriended by Arkilu, whom he covets!” Then he asked: “And when am I to see the Terrible One?”
“To-morrow morning,” was the reply.
However, Myles Cabot fell asleep at the encampment that night wondering when he would get that radio set finished for a talk with Lilla and wondering whether that really was galena crystal which he had passed on the road.
But galena crystal wasn’t going to help him any with Att the Terrible.
In the morning Myles Cabot was to be brought before Att the Terrible, king of the Roies—for execution in the diabolical manner common to these furry aborigines, namely by being strung up by the heels and then used as a target for the archery of the king.
In spite of this, he slept soundly and dreamed of radio sets and blast furnaces and galena mines, until he was awakened by a soft furry paw shaking his shoulder.
A voice spoke close to his ear: “A life for a life.”
“So you have that proverb on this continent as well as in Cupia?” was his reply. “Who are you, and what do you want?”
“I am the soldier whom you saved from the raging mountain torrent, and what I want is to repay that favor. It is really true that you are a friend of Otto the Bold?”
“Yes.”
“Then come. The forces of Grod the Silent, Prince Otto’s father, are encamped but a short distance from here. I am on guard over you for the moment. Come, while there is yet time.”
Cabot arose in haste. The other promptly severed the cords which bound his elbows. Oh, how good it felt to have his arms free once more! He held them aloft, and flexed and reflexed the lame and bloodless muscles. Excruciating pain shot through the nerves of his forearm, but it was pleasant pain, easy to bear, for it portended peace and rest to his tired members.
He wiggled all his fingers rapidly, and the pain gave way to a prickly tingling, which in turn gradually faded off as the blood coursed freely through his veins and arteries once more. He drew a deep sigh of relief.
“Come!” the guard commanded.
Together the two left the tent, and threaded their way among the other tents out of the camp, and down a rocky hillside path, the Roy in advance, with Myles following, holding the other’s hand for guidance.
Myles lost all sense of direction in the jet black starless night, but the other, born and reared on Poros, and hence used to the daily recurrences of twelve hours of absolute darkness, walked sure-footedly ahead, and seemed to know where he was going.
Finally, after about two hours of this groping treadmill progress lights appeared ahead, and presently there came the sentry’s challenge: “Halt! Who is there?”
“Two messengers with word for Grod the Silent,” Cabot’s conductor replied.
In an aside, Cabot interestedly inquired: “How does it happen that this camp is guarded, whereas the camp which besieged the village of Sur was not?”
“There is no need to post sentinels when fighting against the Vairkings, for Vairkings never go out in the dark, but we Roies are different.”
“Why, then, did we meet no sentinels when leaving your camp?”
“Because we were goingout. We passed one but he did not challenge us. Comingbackwould be different.”
At this point the hostile guard interposed: “Stop that whispering among yourselves. Ho there, a light!”
Whereat a small detachment arrived on the double quick, with torches. The leader shaded his eyes with one palm, and inspected Myles and his companion carefully.
“This is a Vairking,” he said in surprise, noting the leather trappings of the earth-man. “You are spies. Seize them!”
In an instant they were seized and bound, and thrown into separate tents under guard.
When morning came, Myles was fed and then led before Grod the Silent. The earth-man smiled ingratiatingly as he entered, but there was no sign of recognition on the stern face of the King of the Roies.
“Who are you?” the latter asked, “and what are you doing here?”
“I am Cabot the Minorian,” was the reply, “a recently escaped prisoner of Att the Terrible.”
“Do not mention that accursed name in my presence!” thundered the king; then: “I do not seem to recall your name, but your face looks familiar. Where have I seen you before?”
“In the ravine near Sur.”
Grod’s brow clouded.
“I remember. You felled me with your fist,” said he, darkly; then brightening a bit: “But you spared me. Why?”
“Because your death would please the Roy whose name you do not permit me to mention.”
“You improve,” Grod declared, smiling. “Know, then, that we Roies hold to the maxim, ‘A life for a life.’ Accordingly, I shall set you free, and shall content myself with shooting arrows into merely the soldier who brought you here.”
“You give me a life for a life unconditionally?” asked Myles.
“Yes.”
“Then give me the life of the poor soldier who saved me from the unmentionable one. Shoot your arrows into my body instead.”
“Very magnanimous of you,” Grod said. “And really, it makes but little difference to me just whom I practice archery upon. Ho guard! Bring the other prisoner in.”
One of the soldiery accordingly withdrew, and presently returned with—Quivven! Quivven, of all persons!
Cabot gasped, and so did the golden-furred Vairking maiden; then both uttered simultaneously the single word, “You!”
The savage chief smiled. Said he, “A slight mistake, guard; I meant you to bring the Roy soldier who was captured with this furless one early this morning. But evidently it has turned out to be a fortunate mistake, for it has brought to my attention the fact that this common Vairking man and this noble Vairking lady are acquainted.”
While the Roy was speaking an idea occurred to Cabot: He was entitled by the code of honor of this savage race to save a life. Chivalry demanded that he save the life of this maiden rather than that of himself, or even the soldier who had rescued him from Att the Terrible. Yet what would Lilla think?
Did he not owe it to Lilla to save his own life in order that he might some day return across the boiling seas to saveherfrom the unknown peril which menaced her? For him to sacrifice himself and her, or even merely himself, for the sake of some strange woman, would fill Lilla with consuming jealousy.
Luckily Lilla was not here to see him make his choice. He was an officer and a gentleman, to whom but one course lay open. And if he decided in the way that would displease Lilla, then that very decision would forever prevent Lilla from knowing.