While the doleful one was still falling, Katon's bow spoke a second time and the last enemy dropped, mortally wounded.
Rotark, gloomier than ever, got unsteadily to his feet, spat out two teeth as an involuntary offering to the God-Whose-Name-May-Not-Be-Spoken-Aloud, picked up his splintered bow and started for the exit.
Katon and Tharn grinned quietly to one another and followed him.
And the thrilled thousands in the stands released at last the breath they unconsciously had been holding for long seconds.
And so the day wore on. Many times during the passing hours guards entered the great cell to select men for combat in the arena. Some of those selected returned, others never came back; but survivors outweighed, by far, the losses. The reasons were two: Every man knew that survival, now, would heighten his chance for freedom when the break took place. As a result he fought with determination and daring not possible without hope to feed upon.
Wotar was responsible for the second reason. The director knew from years of handling these Games that spectators thrilled more over duels between men than over those between men and beasts. As a consequence he husbanded his supply of warriors, sending enough of them at one time against the jungle creatures that the latter almost invariably succumbed before they could do much harm. Only when a man proved an exceptionally able warrior were the odds more nearly even.
About mid-way in that long afternoon, Wotar and his men entered the dungeon and took Tharn, alone, with them. The cave lord looked back as he passed through the doorway, in time to catch an expression in Katon's eyes that was very close to being fear. It came to Tharn, then, that should he perish in action, the planned revolt might never take place. On his leadership depended the hopes of every man in that room.
Once more Tharn found himself in the arms-room. The attendant there looked questioningly at Wotar.
The master of the Games ran a thoughtful eye over the Cro-Magnard's splendid body.