After we had eaten again I asked Dian if she intended returning to her tribe now that Jubal was dead, but she shook her head sadly, and said that she did not dare, for there was still Jubal’s brother to be considered—­his oldest brother.

“What has he to do with it?” I asked.  “Does he too want you, or has the option on you become a family heirloom, to be passed on down from generation to generation?”

She was not quite sure as to what I meant.

“It is probable,” she said, “that they all will want revenge for the death of Jubal—­there are seven of them—­seven terrible men.  Someone may have to kill them all, if I am to return to my people.”

It began to look as though I had assumed a contract much too large for me—­about seven sizes, in fact.

“Had Jubal any cousins?” I asked.  It was just as well to know the worst at once.

“Yes,” replied Dian, “but they don’t count—­they all have mates.  Jubal’s brothers have no mates because Jubal could get none for himself.  He was so ugly that women ran away from him—­some have even thrown themselves from the cliffs of Amoz into the Darel Az rather than mate with the Ugly One.”

“But what had that to do with his brothers?” I asked.

“I forget that you are not of Pellucidar,” said Dian, with a look of pity mixed with contempt, and the contempt seemed to be laid on a little thicker than the circumstance warranted—­as though to make quite certain that I shouldn’t overlook it.  “You see,” she continued, “a younger brother may not take a mate until all his older brothers have done so, unless the older brother waives his prerogative, which Jubal would not do, knowing that as long as he kept them single they would be all the keener in aiding him to secure a mate.”

Noticing that Dian was becoming more communicative I began to entertain hopes that she might be warming up toward me a bit, although upon what slender thread I hung my hopes I soon discovered.

“As you dare not return to Amoz,” I ventured, “what is to become of you since you cannot be happy here with me, hating me as you do?”

“I shall have to put up with you,” she replied coldly, “until you see fit to go elsewhere and leave me in peace, then I shall get along very well alone.”

I looked at her in utter amazement.  It seemed incredible that even a prehistoric woman could be so cold and heartless and ungrateful.  Then I arose.

“I shall leave you now,” I said haughtily, “I have had quite enough of your ingratitude and your insults,” and then I turned and strode majestically down toward the valley.  I had taken a hundred steps in absolute silence, and then Dian spoke.

“I hate you!” she shouted, and her voice broke—­in rage, I thought.

I was absolutely miserable, but I hadn’t gone too far when I began to realize that I couldn’t leave her alone there without protection, to hunt her own food amid the dangers of that savage world.  She might hate me, and revile me, and heap indignity after indignity upon me, as she already had, until I should have hated her; but the pitiful fact remained that I loved her, and I couldn’t leave her there alone.