XII COMPANIONS IN MISERY In the morning Myles Cabot was to be brought before Att the Terrible, king of the Roies—for execution in the diabolical manner common to these furry aborigines, namely by being strung up by the heels and then used as a target for the archery of the king. In spite of this, he slept soundly and dreamed of radio sets and blast furnaces and galena mines, until he was awakened by a soft furry paw shaking his shoulder. A voice spoke close to his ear: “A life for a life.” “So you have that proverb on this continent as well as in Cupia?” was his reply. “Who are you, and what do you want?” “I am the soldier whom you saved from the raging mountain torrent, and what I want is to repay that favor. It is really true that you are a friend of Otto the Bold?” “Yes.” “Then come. The forces of Grod the Silent, Prince Otto’s father, are encamped but a short distance from here. I am on guard over you for the moment. Come, while there is yet time.” Cabot arose in haste. The other promptly severed the cords which bound his elbows. Oh, how good it felt to have his arms free once more! He held them aloft, and flexed and reflexed the lame and bloodless muscles. Excruciating pain shot through the nerves of his forearm, but it was pleasant pain, easy to bear, for it portended peace and rest to his tired members. He wiggled all his fingers rapidly, and the pain gave way to a prickly tingling, which in turn gradually faded off as the blood coursed freely through his veins and arteries once more. He drew a deep sigh of relief. “Come!” the guard commanded. Together the two left the tent, and threaded their way among the other tents out of the camp, and down a rocky hillside path, the Roy in advance, with Myles following, holding the other’s hand for guidance. Myles lost all sense of direction in the jet black starless night, but the other, born and reared on Poros, and hence used to the daily recurrences of twelve hours of absolute darkness, walked sure-footedly ahead, and seemed to know where he was going. Finally, after about two hours of this groping treadmill progress lights appeared ahead, and presently there came the sentry’s challenge: “Halt! Who is there?” “Two messengers with word for Grod the Silent,” Cabot’s conductor replied. In an aside, Cabot interestedly inquired: “How does it happen that this camp is guarded, whereas the camp which besieged the village of Sur was not?” “There is no need to post sentinels when fighting against the Vairkings, for Vairkings never go out in the dark, but we Roies are different.” “Why, then, did we meet no sentinels when leaving your camp?” “Because we were going _out_. We passed one but he did not challenge us. Coming _back_ would be different.” At this point the hostile guard interposed: “Stop that whispering among yourselves. Ho there, a light!”