“Jubal the Ugly One placed his trophy before my father’s house.  It was the head of a mighty tandor.  It remained there and no greater trophy was placed beside it.  So I knew that Jubal the Ugly One would come and take me as his mate.  None other so powerful wished me, or they would have slain a mightier beast and thus have won me from Jubal.  My father is not a mighty hunter.  Once he was, but a sadok tossed him, and never again had he the full use of his right arm.  My brother, Dacor the Strong One, had gone to the land of Sari to steal a mate for himself.  Thus there was none, father, brother, or lover, to save me from Jubal the Ugly One, and I ran away and hid among the hills that skirt the land of Amoz.  And there these Sagoths found me and made me captive.”

“What will they do with you?” I asked.  “Where are they taking us?”

Again she looked her incredulity.

“I can almost believe that you are of another world,” she said, “for otherwise such ignorance were inexplicable.  Do you really mean that you do not know that the Sagoths are the creatures of the Mahars—­the mighty Mahars who think they own Pellucidar and all that walks or grows upon its surface, or creeps or burrows beneath, or swims within its lakes and oceans, or flies through its air?  Next you will be telling me that you never before heard of the Mahars!”

I was loath to do it, and further incur her scorn; but there was no alternative if I were to absorb knowledge, so I made a clean breast of my pitiful ignorance as to the mighty Mahars.  She was shocked.  But she did her very best to enlighten me, though much that she said was as Greek would have been to her.  She described the Mahars largely by comparisons.  In this way they were like unto thipdars, in that to the hairless lidi.

About all I gleaned of them was that they were quite hideous, had wings, and webbed feet; lived in cities built beneath the ground; could swim under water for great distances, and were very, very wise.  The Sagoths were their weapons of offense and defense, and the races like herself were their hands and feet—­they were the slaves and servants who did all the manual labor.  The Mahars were the heads—­the brains—­of the inner world.  I longed to see this wondrous race of supermen.

Perry learned the language with me.  When we halted, as we occasionally did, though sometimes the halts seemed ages apart, he would join in the conversation, as would Ghak the Hairy One, he who was chained just ahead of Dian the Beautiful.  Ahead of Ghak was Hooja the Sly One.  He too entered the conversation occasionally.  Most of his remarks were directed toward Dian the Beautiful.  It didn’t take half an eye to see that he had developed a bad case; but the girl appeared totally oblivious to his thinly veiled advances.  Did I say thinly veiled?  There is a race of men in New Zealand, or Australia, I have forgotten which, who indicate their preference for the lady of their affections by banging her over the head with a bludgeon.  By comparison with this method Hooja’s lovemaking might be called thinly veiled.  At first it caused me to blush violently although I have seen several Old Years out at Rectors, and in other less fashionable places off Broadway, and in Vienna, and Hamburg.