“I may never return to Bantoom,” replied Ghek.  “Therefore I have but two friends in all Barsoom.  What better may I do than serve them faithfully?  You may trust me, Gatholian, who with a woman of your kind has taught me that there be finer and nobler things than perfect mentality uninfluenced by the unreasoning tuitions of the heart.  I go.”

* * * * *

As O-Tar pointed to the little doorway all eyes turned in the direction he indicated and surprise was writ large upon the faces of the warriors when they recognized the two who had entered the banquet hall.  There was I-Gos, and he dragged behind him one who was gagged and whose hands were fastened behind with a ribbon of tough silk.  It was the slave girl.  I-Gos’ cackling laughter rose above the silence of the room.

“Ey, ey!” he shrilled.  “What the young warriors of O-Tar cannot do, old I-Gos does alone.”

“Only a Corphal may capture a Corphal,” growled one of the chiefs who had fled from the chambers of O-Mai.

I-Gos laughed.  “Terror turned your heart to water,” he replied; “and shame your tongue to libel.  This be no Corphal, but only a woman of Helium; her companion a warrior who can match blades with the best of you and cut your putrid hearts.  Not so in the days of I-Gos’ youth.  Ah, then were there men in Manator.  Well do I recall that day that I—­”

“Peace, doddering fool!” commanded O-Tar.  “Where is the man?”

“Where I found the woman—­in the death chamber of O-Mai.  Let your wise and brave chieftains go thither and fetch him.  I am an old man, and could bring but one.”

“You have done well, I-Gos,” O-Tar hastened to assure him, for when he learned that Gahan might still be in the haunted chambers he wished to appease the wrath of I-Gos, knowing well the vitriolic tongue and temper of the ancient one.  “You think she is no Corphal, then, I-Gos?” he asked, wishing to carry the subject from the man who was still at large.

“No more than you,” replied the ancient taxidermist.

O-Tar looked long and searchingly at Tara of Helium.  All the beauty that was hers seemed suddenly to be carried to every fibre of his consciousness.  She was still garbed in the rich harness of a Black Princess of Jetan, and as O-Tar the Jeddak gazed upon her he realized that never before had his eyes rested upon a more perfect figure—­a more beautiful face.

“She is no Corphal,” he murmured to himself.  “She is no Corphal and she is a princess—­a princess of Helium, and, by the golden hair of the Holy Hekkador, she is beautiful.  Take the gag from her mouth and release her hands,” he commanded aloud.  “Make room for the Princess Tara of Helium at the side of O-Tar of Manator.  She shall dine as becomes a princess.”

Slaves did as O-Tar bid and Tara of Helium stood with flashing eyes behind the chair that was offered her.  “Sit!” commanded O-Tar.

The girl sank into the chair.  “I sit as a prisoner,” she said; “not as a guest at the board of my enemy, O-Tar of Manator.”