what seemed hours--working almost to the verge of exhaustion and
then resting for a few minutes; but ever the hole grew larger though he
could see nothing of the interior of the room beyond because of the
hanging that I-Gos had drawn across it after he had locked Turan within.

At last, however, the panthan had hewn an opening through which his
body could pass, and seizing a long-sword that he had brought close to
the door for the purpose he crawled through into the next room.
Flinging aside the arras he stood ready, sword in hand, to fight his
way to the side of Tara of Helium--but she was not there. In the center
of the room lay I-Gos, dead upon the floor; but Tara of Helium was
nowhere to be seen.

Turan was nonplussed. It must have been her hand that had struck down
the old man, yet she had made no effort to release Turan from his
prison. And then he thought of those last words of hers: "I do not want
your love! I hate you," and the truth dawned upon him--she had seized
upon this first opportunity to escape him. With downcast heart Turan
turned away. What should he do? There could be but one answer. While he
lived and she lived he must still leave no stone unturned to effect her
escape and safe return to the land of her people. But how? How was he
even to find his way from this labyrinth? How was he to find her again?
He walked to the nearest doorway. It chanced to be that which led into
the room containing the mounted dead, awaiting transportation to
balcony or grim room or whatever place was to receive them. His eyes
travelled to the great, painted warrior on the thoat and as they ran
over the splendid trappings and the serviceable arms a new light came
into the pain-dulled eyes of the panthan. With a quick step he crossed
to the side of the dead warrior and dragged him from his mount. With
equal celerity he stripped him of his harness and his arms, and tearing
off his own, donned the regalia of the dead man. Then he hastened back
to the room in which he had been trapped, for there he had seen that
which he needed to make his disguise complete. In a cabinet he found
them--pots of paint that the old taxidermist had used to place the
war-paint in its wide bands across the cold faces of dead warriors.

A few moments later Gahan of Gathol emerged from the room a warrior of
Manator in every detail of harness, equipment, and ornamentation. He
had removed from the leather of the dead man the insignia of his house
and