And she had been so close to freedom! From her place high in the tree she could see the stone walls of Rydob's dwelling, evil and grim in the sun. Behind those walls lay the dead body of Meltor, slain by his own knife.

She felt no regret for having killed him. It had been his life--or hers.

When he had lunged across the table in an attempt to stab her, she, acting by instinct rather than thought, had thrust her weight against the table. Meltor, off balance, went over backwards, his head striking hard against the floor. Before he could regain his wits Dylara had torn the knife from his hand. He cried out once in mortal fear as the blade swung high, flung up a futile hand to ward off the blow, and died as polished flint pierced his heart.

No--she felt no regret for having killed him. What she did regret was the mad impulse that had sent her running blindly into the open air. So anxious had she been to flee that horrible place that she had no eyes for what lay in her path. As a result, one heel had trod full on the whitened skull of Rydob the hermit. Dylara's ankle had twisted beneath her, pitching her headlong into a tangle of vines at the base of the steps.

She was up at once; but the injured ankle buckled under her weight and she had fallen again, crying out in agony.

For a little while she had remained there, stroking the injured member, already swollen and turning blue. Finally she got to her hands and knees and, with many pauses, crawled toward the trees ringing the clearing.

How she managed to clamber into the branches of one giant tree and work her way a full fifty feet above the ground, Dylara was never to know. So awful was the pain that her mind seemed numbed; only an unflagging determination drove her on. She stopped at last, on a thick bough and lay there, completely exhausted.

It was comparatively cool there in the shelter of the foliage. Soft jungle breezes stirred the branch gently and she was soon asleep. A bird twittered and cooed close by, and the wind blew lightly across the troubled face, smoothing its tired lines....

And as the weary, pain-wracked girl lay sleeping, four heavily armed men stepped into the clearing and moved stealthily toward the house of Rydob. They entered; and after a few minutes, reappeared at the doorway, to be joined by three other warriors who had come up to the building from the rear.

"It seems hardly possible," Jotan was saying, "for a mere girl to kill a grown warrior. For all we know, another man may have slain Meltor and made off with Dylara."

"It's my guess," said Tamar, "that the girl caught Meltor off guard and stuck a knife in him. She's not like the women we know, Jotan. Hers has been a wild, primitive life, filled with danger. Because of it, she would be far more resourceful than Sepharian women have need of being.

Taking a life probably means nothing to her.

"No," he concluded, "I've an idea she's well on her way back to her caves by now."

Javan, impatiently listening to the conversation, touched Jotan's arm nervously.

"There is no point in staying here," he complained. "It will be dark soon, and the jungle is no place to be after sundown."

Jotan smiled wanly and clapped him on the shoulder. "Of course. I have no right to expose you and Tamar to danger on my account.

"We will return to Sephar now. But tomorrow I shall return here with a warrior who is versed in tracking. With his help I should be able to learn what has happened to Dylara."

"We will go with you," Tamar said quietly. And Javan nodded agreement.

The seven entered the game trail and started back toward distant Sephar.

Jotan led the way, his wide shoulders drooping disconsolately. It was clear the loss of the lovely cave-girl had hurt him deeply.

The return journey was about half completed when Jotan stopped suddenly and raised a cautioning hand.

"Listen!" he exclaimed softly.

The seven c.o.c.ked their ears alertly.

Faintly, mingled with the everyday noises of the jungle, came sounds of murmuring voices and the tramp of feet from around a bend in the trail ahead.

"Probably warriors from Sephar, hunting game," Tamar said. "Let's join them; they may have news for us."

Jotan frowned. "Hunters don't go blundering about so carelessly," he reminded. "Hide in the undergrowth until we can make sure."

A moment later, six human figures appeared in the path. Five were fighting-men of Sephar--all well armed. The sixth was a girl in a close-fitting tunic that emphasized the lithe softly-curved body it covered. Her face was set in determined lines as she moved on, looking neither to the right nor the left.

Tamar, lying next to Jotan behind a screen of vines, nudged his friend.

"Alurna!" he breathed. "What can she be doing here?"

"Looks as though Fordak was telling the truth," Jotan whispered. "She _is_ mixed up in this. He must have got free and gone to her with the story.

"Well, let her go to Rydob's house. She'll find little there to please her!"

As soon as the princess and her escorts were out of sight, Jotan called his men from their hiding places and they took up their interrupted progress toward Sephar.

CHAPTER XI

From Jungle Depths

Urb, the Neanderthal, was beginning to tire. He and his five hairy companions had been on the march since Dyta had risen, and even now the sun was hunting a new lair for the night. From the frequency with which those behind him were stumbling, he judged they, too, were tiring.

But the mountains were close, now. He and his men were almost certain to reach them before darkness came. There they might find caves near gra.s.slands rich in game. Urb's mouth watered and he was aware of being very hungry.

A faint breeze, blowing lightly against their backs, changed its course suddenly and came whipping in from the west. As it flicked across their faces the six Hairy Ones came to an abrupt halt, standing stiffly as though turned to stone.

Urb sniffed in short rapid inhalations, his unkempt visage twisted in a ferocious scowl.

"Men!" he grunted. "The hairless ones! It has been long since we have found such. Hide!"

With a degree of soundlessness surprising in such clumsy bodies, the six Neanderthals faded into the mazes of undergrowth at either side of the path.

Hardly were they hidden, when Alurna and her five companions came into sight. They were moving slowly, the girl limping slightly from a bruised heel, her sandals scuffed and dusty.

The girl stopped and turned to the others. "Is it much farther, Adbor? I don't think I can take another step."

"Courage, my princess," smiled Adbor, a tall, slender man with a great shock of blond hair. "A short distance more and we shall be there."

Alurna sank down on a fallen log, removed her sandal and rubbed the bruised heel.

"I'm afraid you'll have to carry me from here on," she sighed. "My feet ache terribly."

Silently the foliage parted an arm's length from the girl's half-bent figure, and in the gap were framed the brutal faces of Urb and Mog, the sullen. Urb gave the female only a pa.s.sing glance; his attention was riveted on the five unsuspecting men. The woman was not armed--the men were; and it was the males who must die before they could bring their weapons into use.