"Do not hurt me!" screamed the lad on his knees.

I paid him little attention. He was going nowhere. At least two of the other lads had knives.

"You are "Cosians"?" I said to them.

They looked at one another.

Certain gangs of youths, young ruffians, roamed the streets, affecting Cosian garments and haircuts. These were called "Cosians." Such things are common where an enemy is feared. They ape the feared enemy, and hope thereby, as though by some alchemy, to obtain his strength and success. Such charades serve, too, as a form of cowardly camouflage. Knowing they have nothing to fear from their own people, they pretend they are like the enemy, perhaps in the hope that then they will have nothing to fear from him, as well. Too, such postures, costumes and mannerisms provide an easy way to attract attention to oneself, a welcome feature to one who may otherwise be unworthy of attention. Similarly, such charades provide, in more serious cases, a way of expressing one's alienation from one's own society, one's repudiation of it, and one's contempt of it. From this point of view then, such things may constitute a comprehensible, if somewhat silly, or ineffectual, from of protest. Too, of course, such costumes can intimidate weaklings, which some would undoubtedly rate as an additional advantage.

"Do not hurt him!" said the leader.

"You are "Cosians"?" I asked.

"No," said their leader, "we are of Ar."

"I can probably reach at least two of them," said Marcus.

The six stepped back further, preparing to take to their heels.

"We are only lads!" said the leader, keeping his distance.

I gestured with my head back toward the woman behind us. She had risen to her feet. She still clutched the folds of her hood about her face, to conceal her features.

"Do you think she is some slave girl," I asked, "that you may strip her on the street, for your sport?"

"No," said one of the lads.

"She is a free woman, of your own city," I said.

"There is no Home Stone in Ar," he said.

"That is true," said Marcus.

"Do you make war on boys?" asked the leader.

"Now you are "boys," I said.

They were silent.

"Sheath your knives," I said.

They did so. I was now pleased that they did this. I was not certain, really, of the responses of Marcus. He was not a fellow of Earth, but a Gorean. Too, he was of the Warriors, and his codes, in a situation of this sort, their weapons drawn, entitled him, even encouraged him, to attack, and kill. Moreover I thought he could really reach at least three of them, the first with a thrust, and the second too, each with a slash to the neck, first to the right, the blade withdrawn, and then to the left, before they could adequately break and scatter. Marcus was very fast, and trained. In this way I was encouraging them to protect themselves. They were, after all, as their leader had pointed out, a bit plaintively, and somewhat belatedly, only lads. To be sure this would not mean much to Marcus, who was probably not more than three or four years older than they were.

"And bring forward the pouch and veil."

"Release Decius," said the leader.

"I am not bargaining," I said.

The leader brought forward the pouch and put it down on the stones. He then signaled to the lad with the veil. That fellow then brought the veil forward, too, and put it on the stones. Both of them then backed away. I then released the hand of the other lad, Decius, it seemed, and he scrambled away, holding his wrist.

"Give me my veil!" demanded the woman, coming forward.

I handed it to her.

She turned about, adjusting it.

"Pick up my pouch," she said, her back to us. "Give it to me."

I picked up the pouch. The lads had now withdrawn some forty yards or so away. They were gathered about the fellow whom I had had down on his knees, his arm behind him, the wrist bent. He was still undoubtedly in pain.

"Give me my pouch!" she demanded.

I looked at the group of youths.

The fellow's wrist had not been broken. I had not chosen to do that.

One or another of the lads, from time to time, looked back at us. I did not think they would return, however. To be sure, Marcus might have welcomed that. His sword was still unsheathed. Too, I did not think they would be interested in causing the lady further inconvenience.

I felt the woman's hand snatch at the pouch and my own hand, almost reflexively, closed on the pouch.

Her eyes flashed angrily over the veil, an opaque street veil, now readjusted. "Give it to me!" she said.

"It was our mistake to interfere," said Marcus, dryly. He resheathed his blade. "Give it to me!" said the woman.

"You are rude," I said.

She tugged at the pouch.

"Are you not grateful?" I asked.

"It demeans a free woman to express gratitude," she said.

"I do not think so," I said.

"Are you not paid for your work?" she asked.

"Are you not grateful? I asked.

"I am not a slave!" she asked.

"Are you not grateful?" I asked, again.

"Yes," she said. "I am grateful! Now, give it to me!"

"Ah," I said. "Perhaps you are a slave."

"No!" she said.

"What do you think of this free woman?" I asked Marcus.

She reacted angrily, but did not release the pouch.

"Do you think she might be more civil," I asked, "if she were stripped?"

"Yes," he said, "particularly if she were also branded and collared."

"She would then learn softness, as opposed to hardness," I said.

"It would be in her best interest to do so," said Marcus.

"Yes," I said.

She released the pouch and stepped back a little.

Her eyes were now wide, over the veil.

"Perhaps she is the sort of woman who is best kept in a kennel," I said, "to be brought forth when one wishes, for various labors."

"Such women are all haughty wenches," he said. "But they quickly lose their haughtiness in bondage."

"Please," she said. "Give me the coins."

I did not release them.

"Give them to me!" she said, angrily.

"Would you not like to learn softness, as opposed to hardness? I asked. She looked at me, angrily.

"Women learn it quickly in bondage," I said.

"It is in their best interest to do so," said Marcus.

"Yes," I said.

"Surely you have wondered what it would be, to be a slave?" inquired Marcus. She gasped. Only too obviously had she considered such matters.

"But then," I said, "you may not be attractive enough to be a slave."

She did not speak.

I put the pouch inside my tunic.

"Oh!" she said, for I had then reached up and taken her hood in my hands. "We shall see," I said.

"Oh!" she said, startled.

Marcus held her from behind, by the arms.

I pushed back her hood and thrust it down. I then jerked away the veil, and surveyed her features.

"I think you, like most women, would make an adequate slave," I said.

She squirmed.

"Hold her wrists together," I said. I then tied them together, behind her back, with her veil.

She moaned.

She could not now readjust the veil.

"Please," she begged. "Let me veil myself. Slavers might see me!"

"You were not pleasing," I said.

I then took the pouch of coins in my hands and lofted it to the group of lads some forty yards away. Their leader caught it. They then turned about, and ran. The woman looked at me, astonished, aghast.

"Your lips are pretty," I said. "They could possibly be trained to kiss well." Tears sprang to her eyes.

"And lest you return home too quickly," I said, "we shall do this." I then crouched down and tore off a bit of the hem of her robes, but not enough to offend her modesty, for example, revealing her ankles, and, using the cloth as a bond, fastened her ankles together, leaving her some four or five inches of slack, rather like a slave girl's hobble chains.