Cabot paused to draw breath, and was just viewing with satisfaction the lucky results of his chance throw, when a peremptory command of “Yield!” behind him caused him to wheel about and confront a new enemy. The author of the shout was a massive furry warrior with a placid, almost bovine, face, which nevertheless betokened considerable intellect. “And to whom would I yield, if I did yield?” Myles asked, facing unarmed the poised sword of his new enemy. “Grod the Silent, King of the Roies,” was the dignified reply. “I thought that Att the Terrible was king of your people,” the earth-man returned, sparring for time. “That is what Att thinks too,” the other answered with a slight smile. But the smile was short-lived, for Myles Cabot, having momentarily distracted his opponent’s attention by this conversation, stepped suddenly under the guard of the furry Grod, and planted his fist square on Grod’s fat chin. Down crashed the king, his sword clattering from his nerveless hand. In an instant Myles snatched up the blade and bestrode his prostrate foe. Just as he was about to plunge its point into Grod’s vitals, there occurred to him the proverb of Poblath: “While enemies dispute, the realm is at peace.” With Grod the Silent and Att the Terrible both contending for the leadership of the Roies, Vairkingia might enjoy a respite from the depredations of this wild and lawless race. He would leave the fallen Roy for dead, rather than put him actually in that condition. Accordingly, he sprang to the aid of his companions. Crota was already back in the fray, his own sword in his hands once more, and the sword of his late burly opponent slung at his side. Quite evidently he did not intend to be disarmed again. Three Vairking common soldiers and Crota and Myles now confronted seven Roies. This constituted a fairly even match, for the superior intelligence and the leather armor of the men of Vairkingi and Sur, offset the greater numbers of their aboriginal antagonists. What the outcome would have been can never be known, for at that moment, the reinforcements from the village came charging up the ravine; and at the same instant, the tops of the cliffs were lined with Roies, who sent a shower of arrows upon those below. The contending twelve immediately separated. Cabot and his followers passed within the protection of his rescuers and the return to Sur was renewed. The commander of the rescue party threw out a strong rear guard, and the Vairking archers on both flanks peppered the cliff tops with sling shots and arrows, but the marauding Roies harassed every step of the retreat.