“Who are you?” the latter asked, “and what are you doing here?”
“I am Cabot the Minorian,” was the reply, “a recently escaped prisoner of Att the Terrible.”
“Do not mention that accursed name in my presence!” thundered the king; then: “I do not seem to recall your name, but your face looks familiar. Where have I seen you before?”
“In the ravine near Sur.”
Grod’s brow clouded.
“I remember. You felled me with your fist,” said he, darkly; then brightening a bit: “But you spared me. Why?”
“Because your death would please the Roy whose name you do not permit me to mention.”
“You improve,” Grod declared, smiling. “Know, then, that we Roies hold to the maxim, ‘A life for a life.’ Accordingly, I shall set you free, and shall content myself with shooting arrows into merely the soldier who brought you here.”
“You give me a life for a life unconditionally?” asked Myles.
“Yes.”