Witness of Gor

31

“We have seen a hundred prisoners!” cried the fellow in the black tunic, the leader of the strangers.

“None is he, I am sure of it, Master,” said the furtive, twisted fellow, his face a mass of jerking scar tissue.

“If I knew whom you seek, perhaps,” said the pit master.

“Gito will know him,” said the fellow in black.

“We can kill every male prisoner in the depths,” said one of the fellows in black, a lieutenant.

“You have no authorization for that,” said the pit master.

“You know whom we seek,” said the leader of the men in black tunics. There were twenty-three in their party, the leader, a lieutenant, the fellow called ‘Gito’, and twenty men. Each of the twenty men carried a sword, a dagger, and a crossbow. Some had their bows set.

“If you have come to take custody of a prisoner, as your orders state,” said the pit master, “why have you no chains with you?”

I had noted this, too. One of the men carried a leather sack. It was the only unique, or unusual object they seemed to have with them.

“Are any of these a preferred slave?” asked the leader of the fellows in black.

The ten female slaves kept in the quarters of the pit master, I among them, had been, at the insistence of the leader of the strangers, brought along in the corridors. Our hands were bound behind our backs. We were stripped. I had not understood why we were taken along. I now began, uneasily, to suspect why.

“They are only slaves,” said the pit master.

“Cut their throats,” said the leader of the strangers.

We cried out, and shrank back, and might have run, but there was nowhere to run. Men were all about. One fellow took me by the hair, to hold me in place.

“Hold!” said the pit master. “Know that these women are the property of the state of Treve! You are within the walls of Treve. You are sheltered by her Home Stone. You cannot deal with the property of Treve with impunity.”

“You have delayed us long enough,” snarled the leader of the black-tunicked men. “We came yesterday to the pits, and you put us off with some absurd technicality.”

“We have our regulations, Master,” said the pit master.

“That technicality was cleared this morning,” said the leader of the strangers.

The majority of the men in black tunics, incidentally, save for two who returned to the surface, to reparir the fault of their papers, had remained overnight in the quarters of the pit master. It seemed that, as tenacious and terrible as sleen, they would take their repose on the very trail they followed. Too, I am sure they did not trust the pit master. The officer of Treve had left the quarters of the pit master shortly after the arrival of the strangers, putatively to ensure that new papers would be properly prepared, that there would be no further difficulty in the documents, supposedly of transfer or extradition. The men in the black tunics who had remained overnight in the quarters of the pit master, including their leader and his lieutenant, seemed to be strange fellows. They were much unlike many, if not most, of the men of this world. They did not laugh, they did not joke, they did not tell stories. They were silent, frightening, terrible men. I did not think they had Home Stones. If they had some loyalty, and I do not doubt they did, I think it was rather to some bloody oath, or dark covenant, or even to a leader. They attended to their equipment, they sharpened their swords. They drank only water. They ate sparingly. The hospitality of the pit master, offering us to them, was declined. Even the women chained at the wall were not touched. We were, however, denied our blankets, and we must all be chained, even those in the kennels. One of the girls at the wall, Tissia, I do not know what she had done, was savagely kicked by one of the black-tunicked fellows. “Temptress!” he denounced her. She wept and crawled away from him, pressing herself against the wall in her chains. I supposed we were all temptresses, all women. But I could not understand the meaningless savagery of his rejection of her. How different it was from the average response of the average man of this world. The men of this world delight in our femaleness, and in its joyous subjugation, in owning and mastering it. They prize our softness, our beauty, our desirability. And it does not occur to them, in this natural world, to conceal their desires to relate to it in the order of nature, as a dominant sex to one whose biological calling it is to delight, to please, and obey. But these men, these men in dark tunics, were so different! They had us naked in our chains, but then they ignored us. It was no wonder that we drew back in our kennels, and huddled against the wall. Such treatment made us feel small, and ashamed of our beauty. But then perhaps these men had other concerns, concerns which took priority over the curves of chained bond-sluts. Perhaps when their business was done we, or such as we, might be recollected. Perhaps we might then, nude, serve them their food and drink, diffidently. I would fear to serve such men. This morning, before they left the quarters of the pit master each had, in turn, turned away from us, then being anointed, or something by one of his fellows. Each, following this ritual, had been donned his helmet.

“This one,” said the lieutenant, pulling Fina forward by the hair; “Was not kenneled.”

“Cut her throat,” said the leader of the strangers.

“No!” said the pit master, raising his hand.

“Show us the lower corridors,” said the leader of the darkly clad men.

“No, Master!” wept Fina.

“They are dangerous,” said the pit master.

“Show us,” said the leader of the strangers.

“I will show you,” said the pit master.

“He is a weakling,” said the lieutenant.

“Release the slave,” said the leader of the strangers, “but keep her, and the others, with us.”

The fellow who had brought Fina forward let her go. She, sobbing, began to back away. But another fellow stopped her, forcibly. He took her by the upper left arm and thrust her forward. She would remain with us.

“You will recognize him, my good Gito?” inquired the leader of the strangers.

“I am sure of it,” said the furtive fellow, the side of his face moving under the scar tissue. His face was such that it might once have been thrust into boiling oil.

“Go first,” said the leader of the strangers to the pit master.

“Master!” protested Fina, in misery. But she was cuffed to silence.

I had seen nothing of the officer of Treve this morning. He had, I gathered, thought it best to avoid the depths this day. Indeed, the guards of the pits had been dismissed. “We have no need of them,” had said the leader of the helmeted, darkly clad brethren.

We followed the pit master, descending toward the lower corridors.

“Cursed Assassins!” cried a fellow from a cell.

In a few minutes we were in the lower corridors. Here and there there was water on the corridor floor. It was cold to my bare feet. Sometimes it splashed, too, on my ankles, from the tread of the men about me. By myself, or with the pit master, I could avoid the water, keeping to the higher parts of the floor, but it was not easy to do so now, I muchly in line, with the other girls, the men about. Here and there the ceiling of the corridor was so low that even I must bend over. Two of the fellows with the leader carried lanterns. The passage was lit, too, here and there, with tiny lamps. Common cord held my wrists behind my back. I was tightly bound.

“Move back the observation panel on that door,” said the leader of the helmeted men.

One of the fellows with a lantern undid the panel latch and slid the panel, in its tracks, to one side. He lifted the lantern near the opening and peered within.

“Something is within,” he said.

“Open the door,” said the leader of the helmeted men.

“There is only a peasant within,” said the pit master. “He does not even know who he is.”

“And who is he?”

“41.”

“ ’41’?”

“Prisoners in this corridor are referred to only by numbers,” said the pit master.

“Let us see him,” said the leader of the strangers.

“ I do not have the key,” said the pit master.

“Why do you insist upon obstructing us in the line of our duty?” inquired the leader of the strangers. “Do you think no report will be made of this to the administration, to the administrator, to the high council?”

“I do not have the keys,” said the pit master.

“Keys may be fetched,” said a man.

“Tools may be brought,” said another. “We may then force the door.”

“I weary of these hindrances,” said the leader of the helmeted men.

“Shall we go back for the keys, for tools?” asked a man.

“Where are the keys?” asked the leader of the helmeted men.

“I do not know,” said the pit master.

“Seize him,” said the leader of the helmeted men.

The pit master was seized. Four men held him. He did not struggle. I think they did not know his strength. He did not try to throw them off.

The leader of the helmeted men pulled the pit master’s head up, by the hair.

“You are a tarsk, indeed,” said the leader of the helmeted men.

The pit master looked up at him, his mouth open, his eyes rolling. He growled, a sound not human.

“Where are the keys?’ asked the leader of the helmeted men.

“I do not know,” said the pit master.

“Kill him,” said the leader of the helmeted men. The lieutenant removed his dagger from its sheath.

“No, Masters!” cried Fina, thrusting herself forward, falling to her knees in the damp corridor. “He has not spoken the truth to you. The keys are here! They are on a cord, about his neck!”

the leader of the helmeted men reached inside the tunic of the pit master and pulled forth keys, on a string. He broke the string, jerking it against the back of the neck of the pit master, freeing it.

“Open the door,” he said to one of the men.

The pit master looked down at Fina.

“Forgive me, Master,” she said, putting down her head.

The door, after a time, was swung open.

One of the men with a lantern entered first. He was followed by the leader of the helmeted men. Then entered the pit master, who had been released by those who had held him. Some other men, too, entered, including the lieutenant.

The lantern was held up, and the men regarded the sitting figure within.

“He is a big one,” said a man.

“So are many of his caste,” said another.

The peasant lifted his eyes, blinking, against the lantern.

“Light the lamps in the cell,” said the leader of the helmeted men.

The lamps, one by one, were lit. I had usually lit only one, in my attendance here.

Fina and I, and the other girls, as the lamps were being lit, were thrust into the cell and knelt to one side, on the right, as one would look toward the prisoner. In this fashion, our helplessness was increased, we now being subject to a custody stricter than would have been possible in the open corridor. Certainly we would be less tempted to run. Too, this disposition of us freed more men to enter the cell.

“You have misled us again, have you not?” inquired the leader of the strangers.

“I do not understand,” said the pit master.

“You are a brave man,” said he, “to trifle with those of the black caste.”

“Perhaps he whom you seek is not here,” said the pit master.

“Who are you?” demanded the leader of the strangers of the peasant.

“I do not know,” said the peasant.

The leader of the black-tunicked men straightened up, disgustedly.

“Is it time for the planting?” asked the peasant.

The leader of the black-tunicked men turned in fury to the pit master, who stood to one side, to his left.

“You would palm this off upon us,” demanded the leader of the black-tunicked men, “for he whom we seek?”

“I do not understand you,” said the pit master.

“You understand me all too well!” cried the leader of the strangers. “You put a madman here, a simpleton, a dolt, one out of his wits, one who does not know his own name, a worthless, meaningless brute, a monster of no consequence, and expect to delude us!”

“We can seek further, if you wish,” said the pit master.

“We have it on authority,” said the leader of the black-tunicked men, “that he whom we seek is in the depths. Were is he?”

“Who?”

The leader of the black-tunicked men looked about himself, angrily. But he did not respond. Then he turned back to face the pit master. “You trifle not only with me,” he said. “You trifle with Cos, with Lurius of Jad.”

“I shall be pleased to seek further,” said the pit master.

“You are clever, pretending reluctance,” said the leader of the black-tunicked men. “The matter of the keys was well done. Not knowing where they were, and all. And this dolt, this garbage, in the lowest corridor, in five chains! So clever!”

“But Captain,” said the lieutenant. “Should we not call Gito?”

“For what?” snapped the captain.

“To examine the prisoner.”

“Where is our dear friend Gito?”

“He lingers in the corridor. He fears to enter.”

“Gito!” called the captain, he who was the leader of the black-tunicked men.

“Master?” inquired Gito.

“Enter, look upon the prisoner.”

The small, furtive fellow, with the terrible scarred face, perhaps from scalding, entered the cell.

“Is it he?” asked the leader of the strangers, pointing to the peasant.

“It cannot me,” said Gito, squinting.

“Could you recognize him?”

“I could recognize him anywhere,” said Gito.

“Look closely upon him,” said the leader of the strangers. “Bring the lantern closer,” he said to one of his men.

“Do not be afraid,” said the lieutenant. “He is chained.”

Gito, the side of his face moving, knelt down before the peasant, looking at him closely.

“Well?” demanded the leader of the strangers.

“There is a resemblance,” said Gito, slowly.

“Of course there is a resemblance,” said the officer, angrily. “These sleen of Treve would have managed that.”

Gito continued his consideration of the peasant’s countenance.

“No,” he said, at last. “I do not think it is he.”

He then stood up.

“We must look further,” said the leader of the black-tunicked men, turning away.

“Gito?” said the peasant.

The leader of the black-tunicked men turned sharply back, to regard the peasant.

The cell was very quiet.

Gito began to tremble.

“Gito?” said the peasant.

“He knows him!” said the lieutenant.

“Yes?” said Gito, backing away.

“Is it you?” asked the peasant.

“Yes,” said Gito.

“He heard the name before. You spoke it yourself,” said the pit master.

“Be silent!” said the leader of the black-tunicked men.

The peasant lifted his eyes, seemingly vacant, toward the leader of the strangers.

“You wear black,” he said.

“Do you know the meaning of such habiliments?” inquired the leader of the strangers, eagerly.

“No,” said the peasant.

“You remember them, such habiliments?” said the leader of the strangers.

“I do not know,’ said the peasant.

“Think, think!” said the leader of the strangers.

“Perhaps,” said the peasant.

“It was long ago,” urged the leader of the strangers.

“Perhaps,” said the peasant. “Long ago,”

“Where is your holding?” asked the leader of the strangers.

“I do not know,” said the peasant.

“Near Ar?”

But the peasant was looking on Gito, who shrank back, among several of the men in black.

“Are you not my friend Gito?” asked the peasant.

“He knows him!” said the lieutenant.

“Is your holding not near Ar?” asked the leader of the strangers.

“Perhaps,” said the peasant. “I do not know.”

“Dow with Ar!” said the leader of the strangers.

“No,” said the peasant, very slowly.

“Yes,” said the leader of the strangers, “down with Ar!”

“Down with Ar’?” said the peasant.

“Yes, down with her!” said the leader of the strangers.

The peasant seemed puzzled.

“Ar is nothing to you,” said the pit master.

“I spit upon the Home Stone of Ar!” said the leader of the strangers.

“Ar is nothing to you,” insisted the pit master.

“Be silent!” said the leader of the strangers.

“Is she in danger?” asked the peasant.

“Yes!” said the leader of the strangers.

“Then those who are of Ar must defend her,” said the peasant.

“I am sure it is he!” said the lieutenant, delightedly.

“And what of you?” urged the leader of the helmeted men. “Are you not of Ar?” must you, too, not defend her?”

“Is it time for the planting?” asked the peasant.

“Must you not defend Ar?” asked the leader of the black-tunicked men.

“Why?” asked the peasant.

“Are you not of Ar?”

“I do not know.”

The leader of the helmeted men stepped back.

“It is he,” insisted the lieutenant.

“I agree,” said the leader of the helmeted men. He then, with two hands, removed his helmet. A gasp escaped me, and several of the other girls, too, for, on the forehead of the leader, fixed there, presumably this morning, was the image of a black dagger. It was such a thing, it seemed, that these men had placed on their foreheads this morning. The leader of the black tunicked men now handed his helmet to one of the others. He also drew his dagger. “Bring the sack forward,” he said to the fellow with the sack. It was brought forward, and opened.

“He is chained!” said the pit master.

The peasant looked out, as he often did, seeming to see nothing.

He called Gito turned his face away.

“You have played a clever game of double Kaissa,” said the leader of the black-tunicked men. “leading us to believe, as though falsely, this was he whom we seek, when it was in truth he, but the game has been penetrated.”

“This is not he whom you seek!” said the pit master.

“And whom do we seek?” asked the leader of the black-tunicked men.

The pit master was silent.

“He whom we seek surely could not be confessedly in Treve,” laughed the leader of the black-tunicked men.

“This is not he,” said the pit master.

“Then it will not matter that he is killed,” said the leader of the black-tunicked men.

The lieutenant and several of the others with them laughed. It was the only time I had heard them laugh.

I saw the hand of the pit master steal toward his tunic.

“Someone is coming,” said one of the men outside the door.

The pit master drew his hand quickly away from his tunic.

The figures of the officer of Treve appeared in the doorway, he whom knew well, and he who had, in the manner of these men, known me well, and as a slave.

“We have found he whom we seek,” said the leader, “and we will brook no interference.”

“I do not come to offer you any,” said the officer. “Your papers are in order.”

“Where have you been?” said the pit master.

“I have set guards at all exits to the city,” he said.

“For what purpose?” asked the leader of the strangers.

“To prevent the possible escape or improper removed of a prisoner,” he said.

“You take great pains to guard the honor of your keeping,” said the pit master.

“Yes, and of yours,” he said.

“I have not betrayed my trust,” said the pit master.

“And I am here to see that you do not,” said the officer.

“It seems we have different senses of honor,” said the pit master.

“Honor has many voices, and many songs,” said the officer.

“It would seems o,” said the pit master.

“He does not even know what we will do with him,” said the leader of the black-tunicked men.

“Your papers are for transfer, for extradition,” said the pit master, “only that.”

“They do not specify that the prisoner is to be removed alive, or in his entirety,” said the leader.

“I am not fond of those of the black caste,” said the officer.

“Nor we of those of the scarlet caste,” said the leader.

“At least we have the common sense to go armed,” said the lieutenant.

“You do not share our Home Stone,” said the pit master. “You should not be armed in our city.”

“We have the authorization of the administration,” said the leader of the black-tunicked men.

“Who would disarm us?” asked the lieutenant.

“Stand back,” said the leader of the black tunicked men.

“I am reluctant to permit this,” said the officer of Treve. “It is one thing, in the honor of a keeping, your papers in order, to surrender a prisoner. It is another to see this done within our walls. I fear lest the Home Stone be stained.”

“Is it your intention to interfere?” inquired the leader of the back-tunicked men.

“It does not seem that I could,” said the officer. “Such would seem to constitute betrayal of my post.”

“It would, clearly,” the leader of the strangers assured him.

The leader of the strangers then returned his attention to the peasant.

“Is it time for the planting?” asked the peasant.

“Perhaps you would have us put more chains on him first?’ said the pit master, bitterly.

“That will not be necessary,” said the leader of the black tunicked men.

“You!” cried the pit master, addressing himself to the fellow called Gito. “He is not the one you know. Tell the captain!”

“Where is my friend Gito?” asked the peasant.

“Here,” said Gito, from back among those in the black tunics.

“Are you well, Gito?” asked the peasant.

“Yes,” said Gito.

“I am pleased to hear this,” said the peasant, approvingly, distantly.

“There is no doubt about it,” said the lieutenant. “He remembers him. He knows him.”

“He should,” said the leader of the strangers. “He once, on a hunting expedition, saved Gito from brigands who were torturing him. He took him, half dead, burned, defaced, into his own house, showered him with gifts, improved his fortunes, treated him as a kinsman. He loved few and trested few, as he loved and trusted Gito.”

Gito turned away.

“It is he, is it not?” said the lieutenant.

Gito covered his face with his hands.

“No!” said the pit master.

The lieutenant smiled.

The leader of the black-tunicked men then motioned the fellow with the sack to advance.

“No!” said the pit master, thrusting his own body between the knife and the peasant.

The leader of the black-tunicked men looked to the officer of Treve. “Order this obtuse brute to stand aside,” he said.

“Stand aside,” said the officer of Treve.

“No!” said the pit master.

“He is armed!” said the lieutenant.

The pit master, from within his tunic, had drawn forth the stiletto which I had seen yesterday in his quarters, that which he had concealed beneath the papers.

The leader of the black-tunicked men stepped back, carefully, slowly, not taking his eyes from the pit master. He made no quick moves. When he was a few feet back he stopped. He then transferred the dagger he carried to his left hand and drew his sword with his right. It left the sheath almost soundlessly. It was a typical blade of this world, small and wicked. Such blades are favored by those who prefer to work close to their men. They are also designed in such a way that they may, by a skilled swordsman, in virtue of their lightness, speed and flexibility, be worked within the guard of longer, heavier weapons. Their design is such, in short, as to overreach shorter weapons and yet, in virtue of the weights involved, penetrate the defenses of less wieldy blades. The lieutenant had also drawn his weapon.

“Please stand aside,” invited the leader of the strangers.

“Stand aside!” said the officer of Treve.

“No!” said the pit master.

Fina, amongst us, kneeling in the damp straw, bound, moaned.

The pit master did not glance at her. His eyes were on the leader of the strangers.

“Bowmen,” said the leader of the black-tunicked men.

Two black tunicked, helmeted fellows who had their bows set, quarrels ready within the guides, stepped forward.

“No!” screamed Fina.

“Do not lift your bows,” said the officer of Treve.

“He is armed!” said the lieutenant.

From within his robes the officer had drawn forth a blade. It had apparently been slung beneath his left arm. It had not been sheathed.

“The first man to lift a bow dies,” said the officer of Treve.

“Why do you interfere?” inquired the leader of the strangers.

“It will take only a moment to kill them both,” said the lieutenant.

“You are a captain,” said the leader of the strangers to the officer of Treve. “You hold rank in this city. Why would you defend this monster?”

“We share a Home Stone,” said the officer.

“Is it time for the planting?” inquired the peasant.

“Yes!” suddenly cried the pit master, over his shoulder. “It is time for the planting!”

“You have been kind to me,” said the peasant. “But I must now leave. It is time for the planting.”

“You may not leave,” said the pit master, speaking to the giant behind him, not taking his eyes from the leader of the strangers.

“I must,” said the peasant, simply.

“They will not let you!” said the pit master. “These men will not let you!”

“I am sorry,” said the peasant. “I must go.”

“You cannot!” cried the pit master, “They will not let you!”

“Not let me?” said the peasant, dully, uncomprehendingly.

“No, they will not let you!” said the pit master.

“Look,” said the lieutenant, amused. “He is getting up.”

There was laughter from the helmeted men.

The peasant now stood. He looked down at the chains, from one side to the other, on his wrists, and ankles.

He pulled at them a little, not seeming to comprehend the impediment they imposed upon him.

“Free yourself!” said the lieutenant.

The peasant pulled against the chain on his left wrist. The links of the chain went straight, lifting the ring from the wall. He similarly tried the chain on his right wrist.

There was laughter from the men present.

“They mock you! They laugh at you! They will not let you do the planting!” said the pit master, not looking back.

“They are not my friends?” asked the peasant.

“No!” said the pit master. “They are not your friends! They would stop you from the planting.”

“I must do the planting,” he said.

“They will not let you!” cried the pit master.

Suddenly a strange, ugly, total, eerie transformation seemed to cove over the gigantic body of the peasant.

“Free yourself!” taunted another man.

“He is growing angry,” said another.

Suddenly the veins in the forehead of the giant seemed to swell with blood, like ropes under the skin. His eyes seemed suddenly inhuman, inflamed like those of a mad animal.

The men grew silent, uneasy.

He threw himself again and again against the chains. His wrists bled.

He uttered a low, terrible sound, not like anything even an animal might manage. More like something that might have sprung from the depths of the earth, a rumbling, as of a volcano.

There was an uneasy laugh from one of the helmeted men. The girls, keeling in the straw, bound, neglected, to the side, I among them, were tense. We shrank back a little. Our knees moved in the straw. It seemed we might be in the presence of a force of nature.

He strained against the chains, uttering terrible sounds, like no human.

“Ai,” said a man, watching.

Then it was suddenly, oddly, as though he grew in stature, in power, and strength.

Doubtless it was an optical illusion, given the confinement of the cell, his now being upright, not sitting, his pulsing to his full stature, then bending down, like a ball, straining, muscles bulging, pulling outward. Then straightening up, then again bending down, again pulling forward.

“He will tear his limbs from his body,” said a man.

But I did not think the peasant, that violent giant, that simple, outraged behemoth of a man, in his present state of mind, in his agitation, in the singleness of his purpose, in this ferocious, puissant concentration of all of his force, his power, against iron and rock, was troubled by pain, or even capable of feeling it.

Again and again the chains drew against the rings. It seemed that a draft beast of enormous size could have exerted little more stress on that metal.

Some of the men then laughed.

But almost at the same time there was heard the slippage of a bolt, and we saw, on his left, our right, as we looked upon him, the plate to which the ring was attached, jerk outward an inch.

“Ai,” said a man, in awe.

The men were then silent.

In the light I saw, on his right, our left, one of the links of the chain stretch a little, bending. I do not know if others saw this. The links there could have been slipped apart, but the peasant took no note of this, rather he continued to force himself against the chain, the link bending more.

“I have never seen anything like this,” said one of the black tunicked men, in awe.

“He is amazingly strong,” said another.

“The bolts are weak,” said another.

“They have been filed from the other side,” said another.

The peasant reached down and seized the chain on his right ankle with both his right and left hand. He then crouched down and then began, slowly, to straighten his legs.

“He will break his legs,” said a man.

Suddenly the chain snapped from the ring.

“It was rusted in the dampness,” said a man.

“We have seen enough of this,” said the leader of the black tunicked men.

“You know he cannot free himself,” said the pit master. “You know he cannot do that!”

“Bowmen,” said the leader of the strangers.

But the gaze of the bowmen seemed fixed, in awe, on the straining giant. Their bows, the quarrels set, were not elevated to fire, with a vibrating rattle of cable, to the heart. I did not think they even heard their captain.

“Bowmen!” said the leader of the strangers.

His cry shook the bowmen.

“Spare the pit master or die!” cried the officer of Treve.

“Hold your fire,” said the leader of the strangers. They had not, however, mindful of the proximity of the officer’s blade, raised their weapons, either to the pit master, or to the officer. One could presumably manage to fire. The other, whichever it was to be, would presumably die. The lieutenant moved a little to his left.

“Remain where you are,” cautioned the officer of Treve.

He could be outflanked by a thrust from his right.

“You have one stroke, that is all,” said the lieutenant.

“Remain where you are,” said the officer of Treve.

The lieutenant stayed where he was. He himself had not been authorized to strike by his captain, and the single stroke which the officer might be expected to initiate might well be intended for him.

“You have no objection, I trust,” said the leader of the strangers to the officer of Treve, “to the simple removed of your disobedient subordinate from the line of fire?”

“If he is unharmed,” said the officer.

“Stand with me!” said the pit master.

“Stand aside,” said the officer. “Their papers are in order. You know that as well as I. Be mindful of your post, its honor, and your duty.”

“Honor has many voices, many songs,” said the pit master.

“Get him out of the way,” said the leader of the strangers.

We suddenly heard a second chain snap, that which had been on the left ankle of the giant. The end at the ring with the force of the suddenly parting metal struck down at the stone like a snake, jerking and rattling. It had even struck a spark from the stone.

Several of the helmeted men, cautiously, began to approach the pit master. The officer of Treve stepped back.

“Stand aside,” said he to the pit master.

“Stand with me,” said the pit master.

“No,” said the officer of Treve.

The peasant, his legs free, save for the shackles and a length of chain on each, now turned about and grasped, with both hands, the chain on his neck. He put one foot against the wall. He began to tear back on the chain.

One of the black tunicked men lunged at the pit master. He cried out in pain, twisting, drawing back, his arm slashed. The pit master drew back his arm, before he could bring it forward again, three of the black tunicked men had hurled themselves upon him. Then others followed. The officer from Treve observed this, and did not observe the sign that was given by the leader of the black tunicked men. Then, suddenly, he himself was seized by two of them. A third wrenched open his hand, his blade fell to the floor. Almost at the same time there was a snap of a chain and the neck chain which was on the peasant dangled before him, from the ring on his collar, and he had turned about again, to face us, his eyes wild, saliva running at the sides of his mouth. His hands were bloody. Blood, too, was on the chain. The pit master’s grip on the stiletto was like iron. They could not pry it from his fingers. But sic men held him, helplessly, to the side. The way was now cleared to the peasant.

“Kill hi, kill him, kill him!” cried Gito, back by the door. “Do not wait! Kill him!”

In the commotion even those of the black tunics who had been in the corridor had entered the room. indeed, some had set aside their bows, to assist in the subduing of the pit master. Two, however, remained at the door. I had noted the anguish with which some of my sisters in bondage had observed this. They could not run past the men. They would remain, as we, the rest of us, slave girls kneeling in a cell, bound, our disposition, our lives, in the hands of men. And I am certain that they were as alarmed as I to be where we were. I think it required no great perception to understand that we beheld, unwilling though we might be, sensitive matters, matters which might prove delicate, matters which might deal, even, with states.

One of the girls sprang to her feet and ran toward the door, but she was caught there, and held for a moment, and then flung back, forcibly, cruelly, to the stones and straw.

She lay there, her wrists bound tightly behind her back with simple, common cord, sobbing.

And if she were to run, where would she go, nude and bound, in the depths? Would she not be stopped by the first gate? There would be no escape for her, neither here nor elsewhere, no more than for us. We were collared. We were branded. We were slave girls.

We feared, being where we were, seeing what we had seen. We feared the black tunicked men. We feared that we might be disposed of. Perhaps it would be decided that we had seen too much. Yet we understood, surely, little, if anything, of what we had seen. How absurd, if for so little, not even comprehended, our throats might be cut! No wonder we were so miserable, so frightened!

The peasant stood there now like a beast at bay. From the shackles on his left and right angles there hung, their links on the stone, broken chains. Another chain dangled from the ring on the collar on his neck. A link had snapped, but the plate behind him on the wall, too, was half pulled out from the stone. His wrists were still shackled. He did not know that there was an opened link on the chain that held his right wrist. It might have been simplyslipped from its joining link. But he did not know this. And the chain on his left wrist still went back to the metal plate, pulled out, though it was, an inch or so from the wall. It seemed the bolt behind the stone had drawn tight against the stone and I could not move further, not without pulling the very stone itself from the wall.

“Bowmen,” said the leader of the strangers. The two bowmen advanced. Then they stopped, and set, left feet forward, right feet back, crosswise, braced. The peasant hurled himself again against the chains which held him back. The bowmen were no more than a yard from the peasant. The only light in the cell was from the two lanterns, and the tiny lamps. There were several men about. We knelt back, and to the side. Again the peasant, bellowing, threw himself against the chains. We shrank back, frightened. “he is strong,” said a man. Again the peasant hurled himself against the chains. “Kill him,” cried Gito. “Kill him, quickly!” “He is chained,” the leader of the strangers reminded Gito. “Kill him!” urged Gito. “Prepare to fire,” said the leader of the strangers. The bows were lifted. Again the peasant threw himself against the chains. Save for the metal band, the bow, or spring, mounted crosswise, now drawn, and the cable, arched back, the devices, with their triggers and stocks, were not unlike stubby rifles. They were small enough to be concealed beneath a cloak. “Kill him!” cried Gito. Again the peasant threw himself against the chains. I saw the one link bend more. We heard part of the stone scrape outward in the wall. “Kill him,” cried Gito. “Kill him, quickly!” “No!” cried the pit master. Again the peasant threw himself against the chains. There was a sound of tortured metal, a scraping of stone. The entire block of stone in which the plate and ring was fixed on the peasants left, our right, had inched out. “Kill him, kill him!” screamed Gito.

“Take aim,” said the leader of the strangers quietly.

“No!” cried the pit master.

The two bowmen trained their weapons on the heart of the peasant.

The officer of Treve stood quietly, angrily, to the side, restrained by two men. His blade, his fingers pried from the hilt, one by one, was at his feet. That mound of a human being which was the pit master struggled. Six men clung to him. Fina was sobbing.

The leader of the strangers, stood to one side. He and the lieutenant, now that the pit master was restrained, had sheathed their blades.

“Do not kill him!” said the pit master, moving like a part of the earth beneath those who clung to him.

“Kill him! Kill him quickly!” screamed Gito, from the back.

Again the peasant threw his weight against the chains. There was another sound of metal and rock.

The leader of the strangers smiled. He lifted his hand.

“No!” cried the pit master.

The two bowmen tensed, their fingers on the triggers, their quarrels aligned to the heart of the peasant.

I saw the chains straighten, the rings straighten; the plate on our right, the peasant’s left, out from the stone, and the very stone in which it was fastened, too, I saw, it still fastened to its ring and wall, and the other chain, too, I saw, it still fastened to its ring and plate, these tight on the stone, but there, too, the stone itself, the heavy block of stone in which the bolts of the plate were set, was, like the other, with a scraping and a powder of mortar, a rumbling grating, another granular inch or more emergent from the wall.

Again the peasant lunged against his chains, and there was a squeal of metal and there was, as though reluctant, crying out, protesting, another tiny yielding, a grating of stone, another tiny movement, another tiny fearful slippage, of a ponderous block of stone.

“Do not kill him!” screamed the pit master.

“Shoot!” cried Gito. “Shoot!”

the hand of the leader of the strangers raised just a little, preparatory presumably to its sharp descent, doubtless to be consequent upon the issuance of a word of command.

He smiled.

The chains were tight, straight from the wall. The peasant seemed like a crazed animal, gigantic, leaning forward, straining, bulging with muscle and hate.

“Glory to the black caste,” said the leader of the strangers.

“Glory to the black caste!” said the black-tunicked men.

The hand of the leader of the black-tunicked men lifted a bit more. His lips parted, to utter the signal that would unleash the quarrels.

“Aargh!” cried one of the bowmen reeling back, his face a mass of blood within the helmet, the quarrel slashing into the wall to the right of the prisoner, gouging the wall, showering sparks and the other, too, was buffeted to the side by his fellow, his own quarrel spitting, too, to the side, to the peasant’s right, striking the wall, bursting stone from it like a hammer, flashing sparks in the cell, then turning end over end, sideways, eccentrically, to our left. The block of stone, broken from the wall, torn out of it, still fixed to the plate and bolts, and chain, had burst forth, showering mortar in the room. As it had left the wall it had, with all the violence of the forces imposed upon it, whipped to the peasant’s right, striking the nearest bowman on the side of the head. It had split the helmet and, in the instant before it had split, the metal had been flattened, the skull crushed within. The lights were wild in the cell, the two lanterns being jerked back by those who held them, the light of the tiny lamps obscured by moving bodies. Wild shadows moved about.

“Blades!” I heard. “Lanterns up!”

A dozen blades must have left sheaths.

We screamed. We shrank back. We huddled together, back against the wall.

We then saw, in the light of the swinging lanterns, in the light of the small lamps, the men drawn back, the peasant, standing where he had been, but now bent over, his eyes wild, like something that had tasted blood, a long-forgotten taste, but one which induced a wild intoxication. He was still held to the wall by the right wrist. I doubted that chain cold hold him longer now. He jerked back the stone on the chain still clinging to his left wrist. Men leaped back, not to be caught in the trajectory of that jagged, ponderous weight. The one bowman had crawled to the side. “Cut him down!” said the leader of the black-tunicked men. A man advanced, but leaped back as the block of stone on its chain whirled again through the air. It might have been a meteor on a chain. The peasant gave another great cry and with his right arm he lunged against the chain that still held him. The weakened link, that which could have been slipped earlier, it having been opened, but that not known to him, now parted so that the chain was broken.

“He is free,” said a man, in awe.

“The chains were tampered with,” said another.

Even the pit master seemed in awe. He no longer struggled.

Those who were with him seemed scarcely now to restrain him. The officer of Treve, too, seemed staggered by what he had seen. His sword, which had been pried from his hand, lay at his feet.

“He cannot escape,” said the leader of the strangers, calmly. “Kill him.”

The peasant, now that his hands were free from the wall, took, with both hands, the chain which was on his left wrist, that to which the block of stone was still bolted.

He lifted the stone easily from the floor. It swung on the chain, about six inches from the floor. He was bent over. He was breathing heavily.

None of the men cared to advance.

Gito crept behind the men to our left, and crouched down, by the wall.

The peasant suddenly swung the great stone on its chain about his head in a wicked whirling circle. He stepped out a yard from the wall. The men drew back. Some went to the side. Then the peasant retreated to the wall. His eyes, wolflike, looked to the left and right. He would not permit them behind him. If he should strike a man, of course, that might stop the stone, or even tangle the chain, providing the others with the opportunity they needed, blades ready, to close. But none cared, it seemed, to be the first to tread within the orbit of that fierce satellite, that primitive, improvised weapon.

“You, you,” said the leader of the strangers to two of his men. “Sheath your swords, set your bows.”

The two men, protected behind their brethren, unslung their bows. Some such weapons are set by a windlass, but those these men carried were more swiftly prepared for fire. It is useful in cramped spaces, in close quarters, in room to room fighting. It is an alert weapon, responsive to the trigger; its opportunity need not be more prolonged than the movement of the target across a passageway; it is a patient weapon; it can wait quietly, motionlessly, for a long time, for its target to appear. The two new bowmen set their feet in the bow stirrup, grasping the cable with two hands, one on each side of the guide.

Suddenly, crying out, realizing somehow, in some dark part of that simple brain, in some instinctive fashion, that he had not a moment to spare, risking all, heedless of his back, swinging the stone about his head, the peasant chains flying about his ankles, charged toward the bowmen. His action, as sudden as it was, took the black-tunicked men by surprise. They fell back before him. The one bowman, his foot locked in the stirrup, looked up only in time to see the great stone whipping toward him, the other was protected by his fellow who received the blow, but, he, too, his foot in the stirrup, fell awkwardly to the side. He cried out in pain. “Blades! Close with him! Close with him!” cried the leader of the strangers. But the stone on its chain, the peasant whirling with it, spun about and about. I saw flesh fly from the thigh of one of the men. He staggered back. Blood splashed on the man to the right of the officer of Treve, he holding his right arm. The sword lay still at the officer’s feet. The pit master suddenly, again began to struggle. The six men about him tightened their grip, clinging to him tenaciously. They clung to him like dogs to a bull. He struggled to throw them from him. The bowman who had been struck lay to one side, his head awry, too far back, still in the helmet, half torn from the body. Swords darted at the peasant but none reached him, he protected in the whriling shield of chain and stone. And then the stone struck against the side of the portal and the stone burst from the portal, a cubic foot of wall there broken from its place, but the stone, too, on the chain, shattered, splitting at the bolts, and fell in two halves away. The chain on his wrists flew about. That to which the ring and plate was attached, bolts still on the plate, struck a fellow across the face, lashing him back. And then the peasant was back again, at bay, against the wall. We cried out, we sobbed with fear. Gito was hiding himself in straw to the left of the portal as one would enter.

“The stone is done now,” said the leader of the black-tunicked men, himself now straightened up, lowering the sword he had held before his face, two hands on the hilt. “The chains are nothing.”

The peasant was breathing heavily. The door was in front of him, but men with blades blocked his passage.

“Four will advance,” said the leader of the strangers. “You, and you, will engage,” he said, to two of his men, near him, in the right side of the room, as one would enter it.

“And you, and you,” said the lieutenant, to two of the men on his side of the room, the left, as one would enter.

The peasant looked wildly about himself.

He could not defend himself, he substantially defenseless now, against these blades. The chain might be evaded, or it might be stopped or turned, or tangled, by a blade. Too, as he would move to defend himself on one side, the other would close.

“He is dead,” said the leader of the strangers, quietly.

Suddenly the officer of Treve kicked the sword at his feet, that which had been earlier pried from his hand, toward the peasant. It slid across the stone. The peasant looked down at it.

“Position to advance,” said the leader of the strangers.

The four men formed, one ahead on each side.

“Pick it up!” said the officer of Treve.

The pit master, held by the men at him, looked to the officer of Treve, wildly, gratefully, elatedly.

The peasant bent down and picked up the blade. He looked at it, almost as if he did not understand such a thing. I supposed he may never had had such a thing in his hand before.

The four men prepared to advance looked to one another, and to their captain.

“You do not understand such a thing,” said the leader of the strangers to the peasant. “You are of the peasants. It is not for your caste. Your weapon is the great staff, perhaps the great bow. You are of the Peasants. You do not know that weapon. You are of the Peasants. Remember you are of the Peasants.”

“Yes,” said the giant before us. “I do not know this thing I am of the Peasants.”

“Advance,” said the leader of the strangers to the four men.

I gasped.

The first darting stroke toward the peasant had been parried smartly.

I had scarcely followed either the thrust or its turning. That single, sharp ringing of steel seemed to linger in the cell.

“Do you call this a weapon?” asked the peasant. “It is only a knife. Yet it is quick. It is very quick.”

“Strike!” said the leader of the strangers.

Another man lunged forward and again the blow was turned, almost as though one might blink an eye, by reflex.

“I do not know this thing,” said the peasant, looking at the blade, curiously.

Another fellow thrust but this time the thrust was not merely parried. The attacker lay to the peasant’s right, his knees drawn up. He coughed blood into the straw.

“But it is quick,” said the peasant. “It is quick.”

“Attack, attack!” cried the leader of the strangers.

Steel rang out by the wall of the cell. I think I heard blades cross seven or eight times.

Black-tunicked men drew back. Another of their fellows lay in the straw.

“He is a master,” said a man, in awe.

Suddenly the pit master, with a great cry, with a great surge of strength, like a moving mountain, like a pain-crazed, maddened bull, threw from the black-tunicked men who held him, as the mountain might have uprooted trees and tumbled boulders to the valley below, as the bull, rearing up, tossing its head, might have shaken itself free of besetting dogs.

At the same time the officer of Treve threw the two from him who had held him.

The pit master tore a lantern from the hand of a man and dashed it against the wall. Oil flamed for a moment, running on the wall. He then, with one hand, smote lamps from the wall, tearing them away from their holders. The second lantern was seized by the officer of Treve and dashed to the floor. Flame flickered in the damp straw, then disappeared. The last lamp, to the left, as one would enter, was struck from its holder. I heard one of the girls cry out, scalded by the splashing oil. The flame did not take in the damp straw.

“Light! Light!” cried the leader of the strangers.

We heard a man cry out with pain.

In a moment or two one of the lamps was found and lit.

One of the black-tunicked men lay in the portal, his chest bright with blood.

“Where is the prisoner!” demanded the leader of the strangers.

“He is gone,” said a man.