The two drew themselves up proudly and regarded each other eye-to-eye for a moment.
“It is well,” Otto the Bold declared. “Good-by.” And he departed under the escort of a Vairking guard.
“The master knows best,” Crota remarked, sadly shaking his head, “but I should have run the wretch through the body.”
The next morning Cabot thanked the headman of Sur for his hospitality, and took up the return trail for Vairkingi, the vacancies in his ranks being filled by the loan of soldiers from Sur. The party had gone but a short distance when they found the way barred by a formidable body of Roies. But before these came within bow-shot a bullet from Cabot’s rifle brought two of them to the ground, whereupon the rest turned and fled precipitately.
Later in the day a bend in the road brought them suddenly upon a furry warrior. Myles fired, and the man instantly fell to the ground. But when they reached the body there was not even a scratch to be found on it; the bullet had missed.
“Dead of fright,” Myles thought; but no, for the heart was still beating, although faintly, and the lungs were still functioning.
“Sit up there!” Myles ordered.
“Can’t,” The Roy replied. “I’m dead.”
“Then I’ll make you alive again,” his captor declared, placing his hands on the head of the Roy. “Abra cadabra camunya.”
Thereat the soldier sat up with a sigh of relief, and opened his eyes.