arrested? You started to tell us at the prison."

* * * * *

Hero Giles frowned as he pulled his podoko into a gracefully carved
gateway of green marble. "There's but little to add, for 'tis all very
simple. The priests have laid impious hands on His Splendor, Altorius,
and imprisoned him in the great temple of Poseidon. We nobles have
defied the arch-priest, for the dog-conceived Jereboam already
marshals his forces for a fresh attack, knowing that Atlans is sore
beset by internal strife. Have patience for now we go to the council
chamber, where ye shall hear everything."

To say that the newcomers found the council of nobles in a furore
would be to put it mildly. Their angry voices carried far down the
beautifully ornamented corridors of the Imperial Palace, which was
used as headquarters.

"Sounds like a dog-fight going on in there," muttered Alden anxiously.
"Don't like the sound of it a bit. I hope they feel kindly towards
us."

Nelson, swinging along with his ragged shirt fluttering like a
scarecrow's, nodded. "Yes, so do I. But I guess they need our help or
Hero Giles wouldn't have risked his life to save us."

Conscious of the value of appearances, the dark-haired aviator
unconsciously straightened his frayed black tie, buttoned the sleeves
of his khaki flannel shirt and otherwise made pathetic attempts at
improving his appearance as the clamor of wrangling voices grew loud
down the corridor.

His wide shoulders swinging to his stride, Hero Giles flung open a
door, beautifully wrought with leaping podokos, and halted on the
threshold.

"Death!" rumbled a voice from inside. "I say death to the Wanderers!
Let us make our peace with the priests, lest they slay His Splendor
forthwith."

"And that's what I call a nice friendly greeting," was Alden's
murmured comment. "Better get your gat handy, Vic. I'll bet they've
got a reception committee of retortii men behind the door."

* * * * *

There was no time for Nelson to reply because now the threshold was at
hand. Inside, seated at a table, he had an impression of perhaps ten
or fifteen scarred and angry-looking veteran nobles whose green cloaks
and bejeweled armor revealed their high rank.

In mid-dispute they halted, eyeing the three figures in the doorway
with curiously conflicting expressions. Some smiled a relieved
welcome, some stared in surprise, but not a few greeted the Americans
wi