Tara of Helium shook her head.  “We will not desert you, panthan,” she said.

Gahan, ignoring her reply, spoke above her head to Ghek.  “Take her to the craft moored within the enclosure,” he commanded.  “It is our only hope.  Alone, I may win to its deck; but have I to wait upon you two at the last moment the chances are that none of us will escape.  Do as I bid.”  His tone was haughty and arrogant—­the tone of a man who has commanded other men from birth, and whose will has been law.  Tara of Helium was both angered and vexed.  She was not accustomed to being either commanded or ignored, but with all her royal pride she was no fool, and she knew the man was right, that he was risking his life to save hers, so she hastened on with Ghek as she was bid, and after the first flush of anger she smiled, for the realization came to her that this fellow was but a rough untutored warrior, skilled not in the finer usages of cultured courts.  His heart was right, though; a brave and loyal heart, and gladly she forgave him the offense of his tone and manner.  But what a tone!  Recollection of it gave her sudden pause.  Panthans were rough and ready men.  Often they rose to positions of high command, so it was not the note of authority in the fellow’s voice that seemed remarkable; but something else—­a quality that was indefinable, yet as distinct as it was familiar.  She had heard it before when the voice of her great-grandsire, Tardos Mors, Jeddak of Helium, had risen in command; and in the voice of her grandfather, Mors Kajak, the jed; and in the ringing tones of her illustrious sire, John Carter, Warlord of Barsoom, when he addressed his warriors.

But now she had no time to speculate upon so trivial a thing, for behind her came the sudden clash of arms and she knew that Turan, the panthan, had crossed swords with the first of their pursuers.  As she glanced back he was still visible beyond a turn in the stairway, so that she could see the quick swordplay that ensued.  Daughter of a world’s greatest swordsman, she knew well the finest points of the art.  She saw the clumsy attack of the kaldane and the quick, sure return of the panthan.  As she looked down from above upon his almost naked body, trapped only in the simplest of unadorned harness, and saw the play of the lithe muscles beneath the red-bronze skin, and witnessed the quick and delicate play of his sword point, to her sense of obligation was added a spontaneous admission of admiration that was but the natural tribute of a woman to skill and bravery and, perchance, some trifle to manly symmetry and strength.

Three times the panthan’s blade changed its position—­once to fend a savage cut; once to feint; and once to thrust.  And as he withdrew it from the last position the kaldane rolled lifeless from its stumbling rykor and Turan sprang quickly down the steps to engage the next behind, and then Ghek had drawn Tara upward and a turn in the stairway shut the battling panthan from her view; but still she heard the ring of steel on steel, the clank of accouterments and the shrill whistling of the kaldanes.  Her heart moved her to turn back to the side of her brave defender; but her judgment told her that she could serve him best by being ready at the control of the flier at the moment he reached the enclosure.