The great Thark stood with his back against an angle of the walls,
while facing him in a semi-circle a half-dozen huge monsters crouched
waiting for an opening. Their blood-streaked heads and shoulders
testified to the cause of their wariness as well as to the
swordsmanship of the green warrior whose glossy hide bore the same
mute but eloquent witness to the ferocity of the attacks that he
had so far withstood.

Sharp talons and cruel fangs had torn leg, arm, and breast literally
to ribbons. So weak was he from continued exertion and loss of
blood that but for the supporting wall I doubt that he even could
have stood erect. But with the tenacity and indomitable courage
of his kind he still faced his cruel and relentless foes--the
personification of that ancient proverb of his tribe: "Leave to a
Thark his head and one hand and he may yet conquer."

As he saw me enter, a grim smile touched those grim lips of his,
but whether the smile signified relief or merely amusement at the
sight of my own bloody and dishevelled condition I do not know.

As I was about to spring into the conflict with my sharp long-sword
I felt a gentle hand upon my shoulder and turning found, to my
surprise, that the young woman had followed me into the chamber.

"Wait," she whispered, "leave them to me," and pushing me advanced,
all defenceless and unarmed, upon the snarling banths.

When quite close to them she spoke a single Martian word in low
but peremptory tones. Like lightning the great beasts wheeled upon