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torches striking fire from their spearheads and helmets.
    “How went the battle, my fair lord?” spoke an eager voice, in the Nemedian tongue.
    “Well indeed,” was the curt reply. “The king of Aquilonia lies slain and his host is broken.”
    A babble of excited voices rose, drowned the next instant by the whirling wheels of the chariot on the flags. Sparks flashed from under the revolving rims as Xaltotun lashed his steeds through the arch. But Conan heard one of the guardsmen mutter: “From beyond the border to Belverus between sunset and dawn! And the horses scarcely sweating! By Mitra, they—” Then silence drank the voices, and there was only the clatter of hoofs and wheels along the shadowy street.
    What he had heard registered itself on Conan’s brain but suggested nothing to him. He was like a mindless automaton that hears and sees, but does not understand. Sights and sounds flowed meaninglessly about him. He lapsed again into a deep lethargy, and was only dimly aware when the chariot halted in a deep, high-walled court, and he was lifted from it by many hands and borne up a winding stone stair, and down a long dim corridor. Whispers, stealthy footsteps, unrelated sounds surged or rustled about him, irrelevant and far away.
    Yet his ultimate awakening was abrupt and crystal-clear. He possessed full knowledge of the battle in the mountains and its sequences, and he had a good idea of where he was.
    He lay on a velvet couch, clad as he was the day before, but with his limbs loaded with chains not even he could break. The room in which he lay was furnished with somber magnificence, the walls covered with black velvet tapestries, the floor with heavy purple carpets. There was no sign of door or window, and one curiously carven gold lamp, swinging from the fretted ceiling, shed a lurid light over all.
    In that light the figure seated in a silver, throne-like chair before him seemed unreal and fantastic, with an illusiveness of outline that was heightened by a filmy silken robe. But the features were distinct—unnaturally so in that uncertain light. It was almost as if a weird nimbus played about the man’s head, casting the bearded face into bold relief, so that it was the only definite and distinct reality in that mystic, ghostly chamber.
    It was a magnificent face, with strongly chiseled features of classical beauty. There was, indeed, something disquieting about the calm tranquility of its aspect, a suggestion of more than human knowledge, of a profound certitude beyond human assurance. Also an uneasy sensation of familiarity twitched at the back of Conan’s consciousness. He had never seen this man’s face before, he well knew; yet those features reminded him of something or someone. It was like encountering in the flesh some dream-image that had haunted one in nightmares.
    “Who are you?” demanded the king belligerently, struggling to a sitting position in spite of his chains.
    “Men call me Xaltotun,” was the reply, in a strong, golden voice.
    “What place is this?” the Cimmerian next demanded.
    “A chamber in the palace of King Tarascus, in Belverus.”
    Conan was not surprized. Belverus, the capital, was at the same time the largest Nemedian city so near the border.
    “And where’s Tarascus?”
    “With the army.”
    “Well,” growled Conan, “if you mean to murder me, why don’t you do it and get it over with?”
    “I did not save you from the king’s archers to murder you in Belverus,” answered Xaltotun.
    “What the devil did you do to me?” demanded Conan.
    “I blasted your consciousness,” answered Xaltotun. “How, you would not understand. Call it black magic, if you will.”
    Conan had already reached that conclusion, and was mulling over something else.
    “I think I understand why you spared my life,” he rumbled. “Amalric wants to keep me as a check on Valerius, in case the impossible happens and he becomes king of Aquilonia. It’s well known that the baron of Tor