“Tell me of them!” cried Turan after him.  “Tell me of Tara of Helium!  Is she safe?” but the man did not answer and soon the sound of their departure died in the distance.

“Tara of Helium was safe, but a short time since,” said the prisoner chained at Turan’s side.

The panthan turned toward the speaker, seeing a large man, handsome of face and with a manner both stately and dignified.  “You have seen her?” he asked.  “They captured her then?  She is in danger?”

“She is being held in The Towers of Jetan as a prize for the next games,” replied the stranger.

“And who are you?” asked Turan.  “And why are you here, a prisoner?”

“I am A-Kor the dwar, keeper of The Towers of Jetan,” replied the other.  “I am here because I dared speak the truth of O-Tar the jeddak, to one of his officers.”

“And your punishment?” asked Turan.

“I do not know.  O-Tar has not yet spoken.  Doubtless the games—­perhaps the full ten, for O-Tar does not love A-Kor, his son.”

“You are the jeddak’s son?” asked Turan.

“I am the son of O-Tar and of a slave, Haja of Gathol, who was a princess in her own land.”

Turan looked searchingly at the speaker.  A son of Haja of Gathol!  A son of his mother’s sister, this man, then, was his own cousin.  Well did Gahan remember the mysterious disappearance of the Princess Haja and an entire utan of her personal troops.  She had been upon a visit far from the city of Gathol and returning home had vanished with her whole escort from the sight of man.  So this was the secret of the seeming mystery?  Doubtless it explained many other similar disappearances that extended nearly as far back as the history of Gathol.  Turan scrutinized his companion, discovering many evidences of resemblance to his mother’s people.  A-Kor might have been ten years younger than he, but such differences in age are scarce accounted among a people who seldom or never age outwardly after maturity and whose span of life may be a thousand years.

“And where lies Gathol?” asked Turan.

“Almost due east of Manator,” replied A-Kor.

“And how far?”

“Some twenty-one degrees it is from the city of Manator to the city of Gathol,” replied A-Kor; “but little more than ten degrees between the boundaries of the two countries.  Between them, though, there lies a country of torn rocks and yawning chasms.”

Well did Gahan know this country that bordered his upon the west—­even the ships of the air avoided it because of the treacherous currents that rose from the deep chasms, and the almost total absence of safe landings.  He knew now where Manator lay and for the first time in long weeks the way to his own Gathol, and here was a man, a fellow prisoner, in whose veins flowed the blood of his own ancestors—­a man who knew Manator; its people, its customs and the country surrounding it—­one who could aid him, with advice at least, to find a plan for the rescue of Tara of Helium and for escape.  But would A-Kor—­could he dare broach the subject?  He could do no less than try.