"Girl," I said to the bound slave.

"Yes, Master!" she cried, eagerly.

"Is it your intention to improve your service in the future?" I asked.

"Yes, Master!" she said.

"And will you strive to be a dream of perfection to your masters hereafter, no matter how brief your term of service may be to them, or whoever they might be?"

"Yes, Master! Yes Master!" she said.

"You see, Boabissia?" I asked.

"She is lying," said Boabissia. "I am a female. I can tell."

"No, Mistress!" wept the girl.

"Are you lying?" I asked the girl.

"No, no, Master!" she wept.

"I believe her," I said. "Let us be on our way,"

"You are apparently more tolerant than I of inadequacies in a slave," said Boabissia.

"Let us go," I said.

"Not yet," she said.

"Come along," said Hurtha.

"I know females," said Boabissia. "I am one of them. If you are weak with them, they will take away your manhood and destroy you. If you are strong with them, they will lick your feet with gratitude."

(pg. 218) She touched the body of the female slave with the whip.

"Is it not so?" she asked the girl.

"Yes, Mistress," wept the girl.

"If you are not strict with slaves," said Boabissia, "they will grow lax, and then arrogant, and then begin to assume the airs of free persons."

"I suppose that is true," I said.

"They must be kept under perfect discipline," said Boabissia," absolutely uncompromising and perfect discipline."

"Of course," I said.

Boabissia drew back the whip. How she hated the female slave. It is sometimes hard to understand the hatred of the free female for her imbonded sister. It has to do, I suppose, with the venomous jealousy of a woman who has taken an unhappy path, a road commended to her by many but one which she has discovered leads only to her ultimate frustration, misery and lack of fulfillment. No woman is truly happy until she occupies her place in the order of nature.

"Do not strike her," I said.

"I am a free woman," said Boabissia, "and I shall do as I please."

"Do not strike her," said Hurtha. "Come along."

"Men are weak," said Boabissia. "I will teach you what women deserve, and need."

"Please, no, Mistress!" wept the girl.

Boabissia then, holding to the butt of the whip with two hands, swung it back, the lashes separated, free.

"Please, no, Mistress!" cried the girl.

Boabissia then, taking her time, struck her five times. She did not spare the wench. Then the girl, punished, hung in the cords, gasping, weeping.

"Now will you be pleasing to your masters?" asked Boabissia.

"Yes, Mistress," wept the girl.

"Now have you learned your lesson?" asked Boabissia.

"Yes, Mistress. Yes Mistress," wept the girl.

"She is now telling the truth," said Boabissia. She then hung the whip again on its hook.

I looked into the eyes of the slave. Swiftly she put down (pg. 219) her head. But in that instant I saw what Boabissia had said was true. She would now be pleasing. She had now learned her lesson.

"Now," said Boabissia, "let us go."

"Interesting," I said.

"You must learn how to handle women," said Boabissia. "That is all."

"You are a woman," I said.

"Do not be clever," she said. "I am a free woman."

"This way, this way," said a Cosian soldier. "Do not straggle."

We then again set out on our way, following others. In my wallet there was a sack of coins, a plentiful supply of coins, though mostly of small denomination, such as would not be likely to attract attention. They had been given to me by the officer in Torcadino. I had kept them. I would attempt to discharge his commission. They would be more than enough, it seemed, to get us to Ar. In my sheath were his letters, and my letters of safety. I did not know what lay before me.

"That way," said a soldier.

"You have not yet heard my entire poem," said Hurtha.

"True," I admitted, reluctantly.

Then, for several Ehn, he altering lines here and there, with a liberal abandon, subjecting the piece, it seemed, to immediate and amazing revisions, rampant and wholesale, doubtless justified by certain disputable if not heinous exploitations of poetic license, generously construed, I was regaled by Hurtha's latest creation.

"What do you think?" he asked.

"I have never experienced anything just like it," I admitted.

"Really," he asked, eagerly.

"Yes," I said, "except of course, certain of your other poems."

"Of course," he said. "Do you think it will become immortal?"

"It is hard to say," I said. "Are you worried about it?"

"Somewhat," he said.

"Why?" I inquired.

"Because it is dedicated to you, my friend," he said.

(pg. 220) "I do not understand," I said.

"Suppose it becomes immortal," he said.

"Yes?" I said.

"It well might do so," he said, "for it is a genuine Hurtha."

"Yes?" I said.

"Then you might be remembered in history as being no more than a despicable, loathsome, notorious, sleepyhead."

"I see your point," I admitted.

"And even if that should be true," he said, "you are still my dear friend, in spite of all, and I simply could not bring myself to do that to you. What am I to do?"

"Dedicate it to some mythical fellow," I said, "someone you just made up."

"A splendid suggestion!" cried Hurtha. He then turned to one of our fellow refugees. "Excuse me, Sir," he said, "but what is your name?"

"Gnieus Sorissius, of Brundisium," he said.

"Thank you, Sir," said Hurtha. He then turned back to me. "I shall dedicate the poem to Gnieus Sorissius, of Brundisium."

"What?" asked Gnieus Sorissius, of that coastal city.

"Rejoice," said Hurtha to him. "You may now die, for you have just become immortal."

"What?" asked Gnieus Sorissius, somewhat alarmed. Hurtha was, after all, carrying a large ax.

"But what if you discard your poem," I asked, "feeling as you often do, that it may not be up to your incredible standards, or what if you should be struck heavily upon the head, as I could conceive happening, sometimes more readily than others, and simply forget it?"

"I see your point," said Hurtha, gravely. "I would then be denying poor Gnieus his place in history."

"Of course," I said. "It is not fair to make him so dependent on you."

"Yes," said Hurtha.

"Suppose, thinking himself immortal," I said, "he then lives recklessly, fearing nothing, takes unwise risks gleefully and perhaps suffers unfortunate and grievous consequences?"

(pg. 221) "I had not thought of that," admitted Hurtha.

"You might feel terribly responsible," I said.

"Yes," said Hurtha. "I am a sensitive fellow."

"Too, he might then go through life uneasily, not knowing whether you had kept the poem not, and thus not knowing whether he was still immortal or not."

"True," moaned Hurtha. "What am I to do?"

"Is this that poem about fellows who sleep late," asked Gnieus, "that one you have been carrying on about for past ten Ehn?"

"Yes," said Hurtha.

"Well," said Gnieus, "it is my habit to arise each morning by the fourth Ahn."

"The fourth Ahn?" cried Hurtha, aghast. "That is rather early."

"In my opinion," snapped the fellow, who seemed in a rather disagreeable mood, perhaps still somewhat disgruntled at having been turned out of Torcadino with little more than the clothes on his back, "folks who remain longer in the furs are no better than lazy sleen."

"Oh," said Hurtha. He shuddered.

"Yes," said the fellow.

"I am afraid I cannot dedicate my poem to you," said Hurtha. "You get up just too early."

"It is just as well," said Gnieus, "for I charge a fee for having poems dedicated to me."

"What?" cried Hurtha I decided I liked Gnieus. He was not a bad fellow, even for coming from Brundisium.

"A silver tarsk," snapped Gnieus.

"That is very expensive," said Hurtha.

"That is what I charge," said the fellow.

"Do we have a silver tarsk?" asked Hurtha.

"You would sell your priceless dedications, for mere money?" I asked.

"Never!" cried Hurtha, resolved.