The startled Roies were taken completely by surprise. From the cries of Crota and his followers, they assumed that the intruders were Roies, partisans of Att the Terrible, attacking them for being partisans of Grod the Silent. As they came rushing out of their standing tents, or crawled from beneath such tents as had been wrecked, they met others of their own camp, similarly rushing or crawling, and mistaking them for enemies, started to fight. The confusion was complete, and never for a moment did the naked furry savages suspect that the whole trouble had been caused by a mere handful of Vairkings. Truly, as Poblath the Philosopher has said, “While enemies dispute, the realm is at peace.” While the Roy followers of Grod the Silent fought among themselves until they gradually discovered that there was no one there except themselves, Myles Cabot and his Vairkings safely regained the Village of Sur with the rifle, the ammunition, and the still unconscious Roy warrior. In the public hall, under the tender ministrations of Vairking maidens—who would far rather have plunged a flint knife into him—the captive finally regained his senses and looked around him in bewilderment. “Where am I?” he asked, rubbing his eyes. “In Sur,” some one replied. “Then are we victorious? For never before has a Roy set foot in Sur.” “No, your forces are not victorious,” Crota answered. “You are a prisoner. And it is only by the grace of Cabot the Minorian that you are permitted to come here even as a prisoner. For the men of Sur take no prisoners, and give no quarter.” In reply, Myles himself stepped forward. “I myself, am Cabot the Minorian,” he said. To which Crota added impressively: “The greatest magician of two worlds!” The prisoner shook his head. “I know of only one world,” he asserted, “and this man before me is dressed as a mere common soldier, as are all of you.” “Know then, O scum of Poros,” the earth-man admonished, “that there are other worlds beyond the silver skies, and that in the world from which I come, all soldiers are gentlemen.” But the Roy warrior was not to be subdued by language. “How did I come here?” he asked. “You did not come here,” Myles answered. “You were brought. I brought you.” “But how?” “By magic.” “What magic?” “My magic cart which swims through the air as a reptile swims through the waters of a lake.” “True,” the Roy mused, “there be such aerial wagons, for I have seen them near the city of the beasts of the south.” “Mark well!” Myles interjected to the assembled Vairkings, then to the prisoner again: “I captured you because you possessed the magic sling-shot, and presumed to use it on one of my own men. This effrontery could not be permitted to go unpunished; hence your capture. The offending weapon is now mine, and you are my prisoner.” “What do you propose to do with me?” the captive asked. “I propose to ask you some questions,” Myles evaded. “First where did you get the magic sling-shot?”