As the fellow
went down I snatched his sword from him and over his prostrate body
looked into the eyes of the one whose quick hand had saved me from
the first cut of his sword--it was Phaidor, daughter of Matai Shang.
"Fly, my Prince!" she cried. "It is useless to fight them longer.
All within the arena are dead. All who charged the throne are
dead but you and this youth. Only among the seats are there left
any of your fighting-men, and they and the slave women are fast
being cut down. Listen! You can scarce hear the battle-cry of
the women now for nearly all are dead. For each one of you there
are ten thousand blacks within the domains of the First Born. Break
for the open and the sea of Korus. With your mighty sword arm you
may yet win to the Golden Cliffs and the templed gardens of the
Holy Therns. There tell your story to Matai Shang, my father. He
will keep you, and together you may find a way to rescue me. Fly
while there is yet a bare chance for flight."
But that was not my mission, nor could I see much to be preferred
in the cruel hospitality of the Holy Therns to that of the First
Born.
"Down with Issus!" I shouted, and together the boy and I took
up the fight once more. Two blacks went down with our swords in
their vitals, and we stood face to face with Issus. As my sword
went up to end her horrid career her paralysis left her, and with
an ear-piercing shriek she turned to flee.
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