strained tongue! The woman who comes thrice a day to minister to your wounds and the other who guards the corridor without—and is probably listening to our conversation"
"Women! Women!" exclaimed Raid, clutching an aching skull. "Why all these women? Isn't it enough that I, who fought and conquered the strongest adversaries Hagar's gladiator pits could furnish, should be knocked cold by a woman with a pebble, without waking up to hear you bellowing of more females, over and over, like a chattering monkey? Who is king or chief of this place? Name me the lord and master of this superfluity of women and we'll sell him our swords—or stick them through him!"
"We have no swords," reminded Thwaine, quietly. Always, one of the two remained exasperatingly serene while the other indulged in emotional tantrums. Thwaine could excel in the former role. "Arid as far as I can determine, the ruler or master here is Cene—a woman."
"Faith!" Rald rattled his chains in disgust. Then another thought caused his expression to change to more cheerful lines. "A country without men, eh? What opportunities, comrade! We won't stay imprisoned for long!"
"Don't be misled. I was also inspired with the same idea. There was a very comely wench who served my food as you lay unconscious. When I attempted an embrace, she" Wordlessly, he turned his face and exposed three parallel and jagged wounds below an ear. "Like a tiger! And entirely without feelings, for she came afterward and shaved both of us as unconcerned as if we had been wooden."
Raid felt of his smooth cheeks. "I wish I had awaked then!"
"Your jugular was safer as you slept!"
There was the sound of a scraping sandal from the darkness of the passage without, and a pointed, elfin face appeared and surveyed the prison through one of the iron-framed apertures. The features were those of a girl in her teens, fresh with vitality and youth, but she wore a soldier's livery and the accompanying fighting circlet bound her dark curls. Her mien was serious and there was a sense of responsibility in her carriage.
"You are feeling better, man?" she inquired of Rald.
"I am not, my goddess!"
Humor was wasted on the girl-soldier. Her eyes became sympathetic.
"I had better, perhaps, report to my captain?"
"You may inform your captain our condition would improve remarkably—yes, instantaneously—if we were given back our swords!"
The guard's face expressed a mixture of emotions that rapidly became involved as her sense of duty struggled with her awe of this giant with such commanding tones. She took a backward step and observed the strength of the iron bars. They had not seemed so great a barrier between her and these powerful creatures when her head was between them.
"You are—men! You have not the right to bear arras!"
Thwaine and Rald stared at each other in amazement.
"My dear lady!" said Thwaine, finally, in his most suave manner. "We have earned the right to bear arms"
"I am not a lady!"
"By Nargarth's devils!" swore Rald, choking.
"I am a soldier of the Guards!"
"Of course," agreed Thwaine, soothingly. The corner of his mouth, the side which could not be observed by their captor, snarled ferociously at Rald, and the ex-thief subsided. "It is obvious. But
