was a great fight! Many times did the strange warriors try to beat back our men, and as many times did they fail. Tharn, our chief, was the reason. So many men that I could not count them, died beneath his knife and spear. But at last he, too, fell with a spear in his back.

"While they were fighting I crawled to the trees. Then I got to my feet and ran this way as far as I could. I wanted to find you, father, that you might go and kill them all."

Dartoog's voice, growing weaker, now ceased altogether. Twice he opened his lips to speak but no words came. Then, his throat swelling with a supreme effort, he cried out: "Go, father! Go, before they—" His voice broke, his body stiffened, then relaxed and he fell back, sighing.

Gently the father cradled his son's head in the circle of his arms. Once more the clear brown eyes opened. The man bent an ear to the lips framing further words.

"It—is—so—dark," came the barely audible whisper. As the boy finished speaking, his body slumped, his head dropped back and life left him.

Barkoo sat as graven in stone, head bowed above the dead body of his only son. There was no sound but that of the rustling grasses stirring lazily in the early evening breeze from the east.

Young Tharn was the first to move. Shaking his head like a hurt lion, he leaped to his feet, caught up his spear and set out at a run toward the distant caves.

By the time he had passed through the trees bounding the clearing before the hills, darkness was very near.

He came into the center of utter confusion. Everywhere about the wide clearing were bodies—some dead, others desperately wounded. Instantly Tharn set about organizing the dazed survivors; and it was only after the injured had been cared for and the dead placed in long rows in two of the recesses, that he found sufficient courage to ask about his father.

"We took a spear from his back and carried him to his own cave," was the answer. "I do not know if he still lives; he was not dead when we took him there."

Tharn, closer to knowing fear than he could ever remember, raced upward along the narrow ledges before the cave mouths. Near the crest he passed through the wide entrance of a large natural cavern, its interior lighted by means of dishes of animal fat in which were burning wicks of twisted grasses.

A group of warriors and women at the rear of the cave, drew aside as Tharn approached, revealing the magnificent figure of their leader lying upon a great pile of furry pelts. Although the eyes were closed and the strong regular features bore evidence of suffering, Tharn's heart lost its burden when he saw the broad chest rising and falling evenly.

Seated on a small flat-topped boulder beside the bed was Old Myrdon, pressing juices from herbs in a stone bowl. Old Myrdon had brought back to health more wounded fighting men than he could remember; and his long familiarity with death and suffering had completely soured his naturally acid disposition.

The young man placed a hand on the forehead of the sleeping chief, gratified to find the skin cool and moist. He noticed the compress of herbs bound in place high up on his father's back, and knew, then, the spear had not touched a vital spot, that with proper care rapid recovery would follow.

He moved to Myrdon's side. "Take good care of him, Old One," he said quietly.

The healer jerked his shoulder from under Tharn's hand. "I do not need advice from you," he growled, his wrinkled fingers grinding the rock pestle savagely against the bowl's contents. "If he lives it will be because I want him to live."

Tharn's grim expression did not change. "Take good care of him," he repeated evenly. "If he dies—you die!"

Startled, Myrdon raised his head. But Tharn had turned away and was striding toward the exit.

At the foot of the cliff he found Barkoo and Korgul and Torbat talking with a group of warriors. The son of the chief shouldered his way to the center. Darkness had come while he had been aloft and the only light came from two resinous flares.

In silence they looked at Tharn's set face. He was aware that they were regarding him strangely—almost expectantly. They seemed to sense that the carefree boy they had known was gone—replaced by a young warrior.

"Which way," demanded Tharn, "did they go?"

A tall, thin warrior with a bloody scratch across his forehead replied: "When they saw they could not gain the caves, they fell back. After they had disappeared among the trees, I followed for a time. Their path led into the south along the trail where we slew Pandor, the elephant, two suns ago."

Barkoo rubbed a hand thoughtfully across his smooth-scraped chin. "When Dyta comes again," he said, "we will start after them."

Tharn's mouth hardened. "You can wait for Dyta if you wish," he said slowly. "I am going after them now. They had no quarrel with us, but many of my friends—and yours—are dead. They killed Dartoog. They tried to kill my father. I am not going to wait."

"What can you hope to do alone, against many?" Barkoo asked in matter-of-fact tones. "Wait; go with us when it is light. There will be fighting enough for you then."

Without replying, Tharn stooped and caught up a flint-tipped war-spear. Then he re-coiled the folds of his grass rope about his shoulders and made sure the stone knife was secure in the folds of his loin-cloth.

He turned to the watching men. "I am going now," he said quietly. An instant later the black void of jungle had swallowed him up.

CHAPTER II

Dylara

Uda, the moon, had not yet risen above the trees when the Cro-Magnon youth plunged into the wilderness of growing things. As a result he found his way purely by his familiarity with the territory and a store of jungle lore not surpassed by the beasts themselves. Because of the dense darkness, he was guided by three senses alone: smell, hearing and touch; but these were ample when backed by the keen mind and superhuman strength bequeathed by heritage and environment.

The narrow game trail underfoot swerved abruptly to the west and rose rapidly. For several hundred feet the way was steep, became level for a short distance, then fell away in a long gentle slope to flatness once more.

All this was familiar ground to Tharn. The ridge containing the homes of his people was behind him now; from here on for a day's march was nothing but level country.

Now came Uda, her shining half-disc swinging low above the towering reaches of the trees, her white rays seeking to pierce the matted growth below. What little light came through was enough for Tharn's eyes to regain some degree of usefulness.

He was moving ahead at a slow trot, an hour afterward, when the shrill scream of a leopard broke suddenly from the trail ahead. Another time, and Tharn might have gone on—too proud to change his course in the face of possible peril. But tonight he had more urgent business than a brawl with Tarlok.

Turning at right angles into the wall of undergrowth lining the path, he vaulted into the lower branches of a sturdy tree. With the graceful agility of little Nobar, the monkey, he swung swiftly westward again, threading his way with deceptive ease along the network of swaying boughs, now and then swinging perilously across a wide span from one tree to the next.

Directly below was the beaten path; and now he caught sight of the animal whose scream he had heard. Tarlok was pacing leisurely in the same direction as that of the man overhead, pausing occasionally to give voice to his hunting squall, his spotted form barely visible among the shadows. Tharn passed silently above him, the leopard unaware of his nearness.

Onward raced the Cro-Magnard, his thoughts filled with the quest he had undertaken alone. His savage, untamed mind had dwelt so steadily upon the outrageous attack, that it finally brought an emotion so powerful as to be