ner world--at least
that part of it with which she was familiar.

She told me that she was called Dian the Beautiful, and that she
belonged to the tribe of Amoz, which dwells in the cliffs above the
Darel Az, or shallow sea.

"How came you here?" I asked her.

"I was running away from Jubal the Ugly One," she answered, as though
that was explanation quite sufficient.

"Who is Jubal the Ugly One?" I asked. "And why did you run away from
him?"

She looked at me in surprise.

"Why DOES a woman run away from a man?" she answered my question with
another.

"They do not, where I come from," I replied. "Sometimes they run after
them."

But she could not understand. Nor could I get her to grasp the fact
that I was of another world. She was quite as positive that creation
was originated solely to produce her own kind and the world she lived
in as are many of the outer world.

"But Jubal," I insisted. "Tell me about him, and why you ran away to
be chained by the neck and scourged across the face of a world."

"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