Presently he heard a voice at his elbow, a low, golden voice that brought him around facing its owner. It was the girl. “You are looking back toward your own country?” she said. “Yes.” “You will never see it again,” she said, a note of sadness in her voice, as though she understood his feelings and sympathized. “Perhaps not, but why should you care? I am an enemy.” “I do not know why I should care,” replied the girl. “What is your name?” “Tanar.” “Is that all?” “I am called Tanar the Fleet One.” “Why?” “Because in all Sari none can outdistance me.” “Sari—is that the name of your country?” “Yes.” “What is it like?” “It is a high plateau among the mountains. It is a very lovely country, with leaping rivers and great trees. It is filled with game. We hunt the great ryth there and the tarag for meat and for sport and there are countless lesser animals that give us food and clothing.” “Have you no enemies? You are not a warlike people as are the Korsars.” “We defeated the warlike Korsars,” he reminded her. “I would not speak of that too often,” she said. “The tempers of the Korsars are short and they love to kill.” “Why do you not kill me then?” he demanded. “You have a knife and a pistol in your sash, like the others.” The girl only smiled. “Perhaps you are not a Korsar,” he exclaimed. “You were captured as I was and are a prisoner.” “I am no prisoner,” she replied. “But you are not a Korsar,” he insisted. “Ask The Cid—he will doubtless cutlass you for your impertinence; but why do you think I am not a Korsar?” “You are too beautiful and too fine,” he replied. “You have shown sympathy and that is a finer sentiment far beyond their mental capability. They are—” “Be careful, enemy; perhaps I am a Korsar!” “I do not believe it,” said Tanar. “Then keep your beliefs to yourself, prisoner,” retorted the girl in a haughty tone. “What is this?” demanded a rough voice behind Tanar. “What has this thing said to you, Stellara?” Tanar wheeled to face Bohar the Bloody. “I questioned that she was of the same race as you,” snapped Tanar before the girl could reply. “It is inconceivable that one so beautiful could be tainted by the blood of Korsar.” His face flaming with rage, Bohar laid a hand upon one of his knives and stepped truculently toward the Sarian. “It is death to insult the daughter of The Cid,” he cried, whipping the knife from his sash and striking a wicked blow at Tanar. The Sarian, light of foot, trained from childhood in the defensive as well as offensive use of edged weapons, stepped quickly to one side and then as quickly in again and once more Bohar the Bloody sprawled upon the deck to a well delivered blow. Bohar was fairly foaming at the mouth with rage as he jerked his heavy pistol from his gaudy sash and aiming it at Tanar’s chest from where he lay upon the deck, pulled the trigger. At the same instant the girl sprang forward as though to prevent the slaying of the prisoner.