The girl was horrified. She had thought her lot before as bad as it could be, but to be in the clutches of these strange, fierce warriors of a long-dead age was unthinkably worse. That she could ever have wished to be back upon the Halfmoon would have seemed, a few days since, incredible; yet that was precisely what she longed for now. On through the night marched the little, brown men--grim and silent--until at last they came to a small village in a valley away from the coast--a valley that lay nestled high among lofty mountains. Here were cavelike dwellings burrowed half under ground, the upper walls and thatched roofs rising scarce four feet above the level. Granaries on stilts were dotted here and there among the dwellings. Into one of the filthy dens Barbara Harding was dragged. She found a single room in which several native and half-caste women were sleeping, about them stretched and curled and perched a motley throng of dirty yellow children, dogs, pigs, and chickens. It was the palace of Daimio Oda Yorimoto, Lord of Yoka, as his ancestors had christened their new island home. Once within the warren the two samurai who had guarded Barbara upon the march turned and withdrew--she was alone with Oda Yorimoto and his family. From the center of the room depended a swinging shelf upon which a great pile of grinning skulls rested. At the back of the room was a door which Barbara had not at first noticed--evidently there was another apartment to the dwelling. The girl was given little opportunity to examine her new prison, for scarce had the guards withdrawn than Oda Yorimoto approached and grasped her by the arm. “Come!” he said, in Japanese that was sufficiently similar to modern Nippon to be easily understood by Barbara Harding. With the word he drew her toward a sleeping mat on a raised platform at one side of the room. One of the women awoke at the sound of the man's voice. She looked up at Barbara in sullen hatred--otherwise she gave no indication that she saw anything unusual transpiring. It was as though an exquisite American belle were a daily visitor at the Oda Yorimoto home. “What do you want of me?” cried the frightened girl, in Japanese. Oda Yorimoto looked at her in astonishment. Where had this white girl learned to speak his tongue? “I am the daimio, Oda Yorimoto,” he said. “These are my wives. Now you are one of them. Come!” “Not yet--not here!” cried the girl clutching at a straw. “Wait. Give me time to think. If you do not harm me my father will reward you fabulously. Ten thousand koku he would gladly give to have me returned to him safely.” Oda Yorimoto but shook his head. “Twenty thousand koku!” cried the girl. Still the daimio shook his head negatively. “A hundred thousand--name your own price, if you will but not harm me.”