“I did not know, Ghak,” I cried.  “I did not know.  Not for all Pellucidar would I have harmed Dian the Beautiful by word, or look, or act of mine.  I do not want her as my slave.  I do not want her as my—­” but here I stopped.  The vision of that sweet and innocent face floated before me amidst the soft mists of imagination, and where I had on the second believed that I clung only to the memory of a gentle friendship I had lost, yet now it seemed that it would have been disloyalty to her to have said that I did not want Dian the Beautiful as my mate.  I had not thought of her except as a welcome friend in a strange, cruel world.  Even now I did not think that I loved her.

I believe Ghak must have read the truth more in my expression than in my words, for presently he laid his hand upon my shoulder.

“Man of another world,” he said, “I believe you.  Lips may lie, but when the heart speaks through the eyes it tells only the truth.  Your heart has spoken to me.  I know now that you meant no affront to Dian the Beautiful.  She is not of my tribe; but her mother is my sister.  She does not know it—­her mother was stolen by Dian’s father who came with many others of the tribe of Amoz to battle with us for our women—­the most beautiful women of Pellucidar.  Then was her father king of Amoz, and her mother was daughter of the king of Sari—­to whose power I, his son, have succeeded.  Dian is the daughter of kings, though her father is no longer king since the sadok tossed him and Jubal the Ugly One wrested his kingship from him.  Because of her lineage the wrong you did her was greatly magnified in the eyes of all who saw it.  She will never forgive you.”

I asked Ghak if there was not some way in which I could release the girl from the bondage and ignominy I had unwittingly placed upon her.

“If ever you find her, yes,” he answered.  “Merely to raise her hand above her head and drop it in the presence of others is sufficient to release her; but how may you ever find her, you who are doomed to a life of slavery yourself in the buried city of Phutra?”

“Is there no escape?” I asked.

“Hooja the Sly One escaped and took the others with him,” replied Ghak.  “But there are no more dark places on the way to Phutra, and once there it is not so easy—­the Mahars are very wise.  Even if one escaped from Phutra there are the thipdars—­they would find you, and then—­” the Hairy One shuddered.  “No, you will never escape the Mahars.”

It was a cheerful prospect.  I asked Perry what he thought about it; but he only shrugged his shoulders and continued a longwinded prayer he had been at for some time.  He was wont to say that the only redeeming feature of our captivity was the ample time it gave him for the improvisation of prayers—­it was becoming an obsession with him.  The Sagoths had begun to take notice of his habit of declaiming throughout entire marches.  One of them asked him what he was saying—­to whom he was talking.  The question gave me an idea, so I answered quickly before Perry could say anything.