“Those who die before are supposed to spend the balance of their allotted time in the image of a plant man, and it is for this reason that the plant men are held sacred by the therns, since they believe that each of these hideous creatures was formerly a thern.” 

 “And should a plant man die?” I asked. 

 “Should he die before the expiration of the thousand years from the birth of the thern whose immortality abides within him then the soul passes into a great white ape, but should the ape die short of the exact hour that terminates the thousand years the soul is for ever lost and passes for all eternity into the carcass of the slimy and fearsome silians whose wriggling thousands seethe the silent sea beneath the hurtling moons when the sun has gone and strange shapes walk through the Valley Dor.” 

 “We sent several Holy Therns to the silians to-day, then,” said Tars Tarkas, laughing. 

 “And so will your death be the more terrible when it comes,” said the maiden. “And come it will—you cannot escape.” 

 “One has escaped, centuries ago,” I reminded her, “and what has been done may be done again.” 

 “It is useless even to try,” she answered hopelessly. 

 “But try we shall,” I cried, “and you shall go with us, if you wish.” 

 “To be put to death by mine own people, and render my memory a disgrace to my family and my nation? A Prince of the House of Tardos Mors should know better than to suggest such a thing.” 

 Tars Tarkas listened in silence, but I could feel his eyes riveted upon me and I knew that he awaited my answer as one might listen to the reading of his sentence by the foreman of a jury. 

 What I advised the girl to do would seal our fate as well, since if I bowed to the inevitable decree of age-old superstition we must all remain and meet our fate in some horrible form within this awful abode of horror and cruelty. 

 “We have the right to escape if we can,” I answered. “Our own moral senses will not be offended if we succeed, for we know that the fabled life of love and peace in the blessed Valley of Dor is a rank and wicked deception. We know that the valley is not sacred; we know that the Holy Therns are not holy; that they are a race of cruel and heartless mortals, knowing no more of the real life to come than we do. 

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