And then, suddenly, Gahan’s eyes fastened with amazement upon the figure of the warrior behind the grinning fellow who held Tara and was forcing her to the doorway.  He saw the newcomer step almost within arm’s reach of the other.  He saw him stop, an expression of malevolent hatred upon his features.  He saw the great sword swing through the arc of a great circle, gathering swift and terrific momentum from its own weight backed by the brawn of the steel thews that guided it; he saw it pass through the feathered skull of the Manatorian, splitting his sardonic grin in twain, and open him to the middle of his breast bone.

As the dead hand relaxed its grasp upon Tara’s wrist the girl leaped forward, without a backward glance, to Gahan’s side.  His left arm encircled her, nor did she draw away, as with ready sword the Gatholian awaited Fate’s next decree.  Before them Tara’s deliverer was wiping the blood from his sword upon the hair of his victim.  He was evidently a Manatorian, his trappings those of the Jeddak’s Guard, and so his act was inexplicable to Gahan and to Tara.  Presently he sheathed his sword and approached them.

“When a man chooses to hide his identity behind an assumed name,” he said, looking straight into Gahan’s eyes, “whatever friend pierces the deception were no friend if he divulged the other’s secret.”

He paused as though awaiting a reply.

“Your integrity has perceived and your lips voiced an unalterable truth,” replied Gahan, whose mind was filled with wonder if the implication could by any possibility be true—­that this Manatorian had guessed his identity.

“We are thus agreed,” continued the other, “and I may tell you that though I am here known as A-Sor, my real name is Tasor.”  He paused and watched Gahan’s face intently for any sign of the effect of this knowledge and was rewarded with a quick, though guarded expression of recognition.

Tasor!  Friend of his youth.  The son of that great Gatholian noble who had given his life so gloriously, however futilely, in an attempt to defend Gahan’s sire from the daggers of the assassins.  Tasor an under-padwar in the guard of O-Tar, Jeddak of Manator!  It was inconceivable—­and yet it was he; there could be no doubt of it.  “Tasor,” Gahan repeated aloud.  “But it is no Manatorian name.”  The statement was half interrogatory, for Gahan’s curiosity was aroused.  He would know how his friend and loyal subject had become a Manatorian.  Long years had passed since Tasor had disappeared as mysteriously as the Princess Haja and many other of Gahan’s subjects.  The Jed of Gathol had long supposed him dead.

“No,” replied Tasor, “nor is it a Manatorian name.  Come, while I search for a hiding place for you in some forgotten chamber in one of the untenanted portions of the palace, and as we go I will tell you briefly how Tasor the Gatholian became A-Sor the Manatorian.