She ran her hands rapidly over her mud-caked fur. “Oh, but I can’t go in like this,” she wailed, “I’m covered with mud from head to foot! Think how I must look! No, I refuse to go in.” “If you stay here,” he urged mildly, “then when morning comes every one will see you, the Princess Quivven, bedraggled with mud, hanging around outside the city gates. Better far to go in now, and take a chance of being seen by only one sentinel.” “Oh, you beast, you beast!” she sobbed, beating him futilely with her tiny paws. For reply he seized her in his arms, swung her across one hip, and shouted: “Open wide the gates of Vairkingi for Cabot the Minorian, magician to Jud the Excuse-Maker, and to his Excellency Theoph the Grim!” The gates swung open, and the sentinel stared at them with surprise and some amusement. Myles whipped out his sword, and the smile froze on the soldier’s face. “Thus do I teach men not to laugh at Myles Cabot,” the earth-man growled. “Remember that you have seen nothing.” And he handed the soldier the choice blade of Grod the Silent. The soldier smiled again. “I have seen nothing but a Roy, whom I robbed of his sword and drove off into the darkness. It is a fine sword, and I will remember that I have seen nothing. May the Great Builder bless Myles Cabot the Minorian.” Cabot glanced at his burden, Quivven, the beautiful. No wonder she did not want to be seen. It always humiliates a lady not to look her best in public. But by the same token, no one could possibly recognize her. He might perfectly well have saved the sword. So he passed on through the city streets. Finally he had to put the girl down, and ask her to help him find the way, which she did grudgingly. At the gate of Jud’s compound, Myles again swung her across his hip, before he demanded entrance. No swords this time, for diplomacy would take the place of payment. “Myles Cabot demanding entrance,” he cried. The local guard inspected them carefully by the light of his torch. “It is Cabot all right,” he replied, “and you look as though you had seen some hard fighting. But who is this with you?” “A girl of the Roies,” answered Myles. “That is what the fighting was about.” “Not for mine!” the soldier asserted, grimacing. “Though there is no accounting for tastes. They are filthy little beasts, and spitfires as well, so I’m told. My advice to you, sir, is to throw it down a well.” Quivven wriggled protestingly. “Perhaps I will,” Myles laughed. At their own gate at last, he placed her once more on her feet, whereat she shook herself free, raced into the house, slammed the door of her room. Cabot himself went right to bed, without waiting to wash or anything, and dropped instantly to sleep the moment he touched his pile of bedding; yet, so intent was he on wasting no time in getting Cupia on the air that he was up early the next morning.