gone before them. They made a thin line, their
backs close to the retaining wall, one end of which was almost directly
below the loges occupied by Pryak and the Council of Priests. It was
toward this section that Tharn and his two companions bent their steps.

The cave lord took a position less than four paces from the stone
barrier at his back. Above him sat Pryak, high priest and ruler of
Sephar, deep in conversation with Orbar.

Now, the second contingent of warriors began to issue from the
arms-room. In groups of three, seconds apart, they emerged and took up
positions near the wall at the arena's opposite end.

When an equal number were at either end of the enclosure, the influx of
armed men became heavier. In groups of five, now, they appeared and
formed a second row a few feet in front of the others and facing in the
same direction. There were fully four score in the open by this
time--and still they came.

Tharn knew the moment was fast approaching when suspicion would become
aroused by this unprecedented concentration of warriors. Already a few
priests were peering down at them, puzzled expressions on their faces.
The buzz of conversation began to fade; and here and there spectators
were rising to their feet.

Pryak stood up, suddenly, and leaned over the railing.

"What means this?" he asked of Orbar. "Does Wotar mean to end the Games
with one battle? There are too many men on the sands; send someone to
investigate."

Tharn, overhearing, knew he dared wait no longer. Throwing back his
head, he sent the hair-raising battle cry of his tribe reverberating
throughout the entire structure. As the notes of that horrendous cry
rose on the still air, he pivoted about and sent a slender arrow leaping
from his bow full at the head of Pryak, king of Sephar!

It is no mean tribute to Pryak's nimbleness to tell that he dodged that
arrow. And dodge it he did--falling back into the arms of his retinue as
death passed a finger's breadth above his sparse locks to transfix an
unfortunate under-priest.

The cave-man's cry was the awaited signal, releasing all the pent-up
hate and fury within the hearts of those who acknowledged him as leader.
As one man, a hundred warriors turned and loosed a shower of arrows at
the thin line of guards and priests above them. The instant those
flint-tipped messengers were released, those rebels nearest the walls
knelt, braced themselves and became living ladders over which their
comra