The guests had all filed through The Hall of Chiefs; the doors at both ends had been closed.  Presently those at the lower end of the hall opened and O-Tar entered.  His black harness was ornamented with rubies and gold; his face was covered by a grotesque mask of the precious metal in which two enormous rubies were set for eyes, though below them were narrow slits through which the wearer could see.  His crown was a fillet supporting carved feathers of the same metal as the mask.  To the least detail his regalia was that demanded of a royal bridegroom by the customs of Manator, and now in accordance with that same custom he came alone to The Hall of Chiefs to receive the blessings and the council of the great ones of Manator who had preceded him.

As the doors at the lower end of the Hall closed behind him O-Tar the Jeddak stood alone with the great dead.  By the dictates of ages no mortal eye might look upon the scene enacted within that sacred chamber.  As the mighty of Manator respected the traditions of Manator, let us, too, respect those traditions of a proud and sensitive people.  Of what concern to us the happenings in that solemn chamber of the dead?

Five minutes passed.  The bride stood silently at the foot of the throne.  The guests spoke together in low whispers until the room was filled with the hum of many voices.  At length the doors leading into The Hall of Chiefs swung open, and the resplendent bridegroom stood framed for a moment in the massive opening.  A hush fell upon the wedding guests.  With measured and impressive step the groom approached the bride.  Tara felt the muscles of her heart contract with the apprehension that had been growing upon her as the coils of Fate settled more closely about her and no sign came from Turan.  Where was he?  What, indeed, could he accomplish now to save her?  Surrounded by the power of O-Tar with never a friend among them, her position seemed at last without vestige of hope.

“I still live!” she whispered inwardly in a last brave attempt to combat the terrible hopelessness that was overwhelming her, but her fingers stole for reassurance to the slim blade that she had managed to transfer, undetected, from her old harness to the new.  And now the groom was at her side and taking her hand was leading her up the steps to the throne, before which they halted and stood facing the gathering below.  Came then, from the back of the room a procession headed by the high dignitary whose office it was to make these two man and wife, and directly behind him a richly-clad youth bearing a silken pillow on which lay the golden handcuffs connected by a short length of chain-of-gold with which the ceremony would be concluded when the dignitary clasped a handcuff about the wrist of each symbolizing their indissoluble union in the holy bonds of wedlock.

Would Turan’s promised succor come too late?  Tara listened to the long, monotonous intonation of the wedding service.  She heard the virtues of O-Tar extolled and the beauties of the bride.  The moment was approaching and still no sign of Turan.  But what could he accomplish should he succeed in reaching the throne room, other than to die with her?  There could be no hope of rescue.