"We'll leave it at that, Pillan. Food and rest now, until it's cooler."

They ate bread and cheese, dried figs and last year's apples, soft and wrinkled. Maia, having wandered a little way along the bank, stripped off the horrible tunic, wrapped herself in her cloak and fell asleep almost at once, without even a thought of possible wild beasts. It had, however, occurred to her that she could rely on not being molested by her companions, and this was pleasantly reassuring.

When she woke, the sun was sinking behind the forest. Long shadows were falling across the rough ground beyond the edge of the trees, and from somewhere not far off came the evening sound of a semda singing its falls and trills. Buttoning on the tunic (which by now felt almost like leather, particularly under the armpits) she returned

to the others. Bayub-Otal was keeping watch from a tree while Pillan, seated on a log, was mending a sandal-strap with twine. She picked up one of the packs and slipped the straps over her shoulders.

"Don't do that," said Bayub-Otal. "Until we can get hold of some sandals for you, you've got to go easy on your feet. If they give out we're all in trouble."

She was compelled to give him the pack.

For a time they went north along the irregular edge of the forest, until what little they could see of the sunset had begun to fade behind the trees. Maia, anxious at the prospect of spending the night in such a wild, lonely place, was on the point of asking Bayub-Otal what he meant to do, when in the distance they caught sight of a man rounding up a flock of sheep with two dogs.

"We'll try him for a night's lodging," said Bayub-Otal. "He might give us away, I suppose, but I think the odds are against it. After all, he's not to know who we are."

The shepherd, who seemed good-natured enough, showed no particular surprise at their request, merely replying that they had better come back with him to the farm and have a word with his master. Someone further off, however, had evidently seen them approaching, for when they reached the gate of the stockade surrounding the big farmhouse and its barns, they found a group of ten or twelve men and girls already gathered to have a look at the strangers. Bayub-Otal, greeting them courteously, left Maia and Pillan to wait while he went to see the farmer.

Pillan was not one to take the lead in talking with strangers and Maia, for her part, thought it best to assume the role of the modest wench, diffident of speaking up before her betters had settled what was to happen. One or two of the girls smiled at her and she smiled back, but nevertheless remained demurely seated beside Pillan on a pile of planks in one corner of the yard.

After a short time the farmer, a burly man of perhaps forty or forty-five, came strolling across the yard, chatting with Bayub-Otal as he came. Evidently the two of them had hit it off well enough and reached an understanding. Pillan and Maia stood up respectfully, but the farmer did not trouble himself to speak to them, merely calling forward another man-the stockman perhaps, thought Maia, or the head forester (for timber was plainly a substantial part of the business)-to see to the gentleman's servants.

A minute or two later she found herself among six or seven lasses, all somewhere around her own age, who had been told to take her with them to supper. Just as she was going, however, Bayub-Otal called her back and, slipping a hundred meld into her hand, suggested that she should try to use it to get some sandals and fresh clothes.

Maia soon gathered that the farm, though no more than sixteen or seventeen miles from Bekla, was regarded by the girls as an isolated place, off the beaten track. The chance arrival of a stranger, and one who had actually lived in the great city at that, was a godsend-a most welcome break in the routine of their lives. Only two or three of them had ever been to Bekla. During supper- strong broth, weak beer, bread and cheese but plenty of it, dispensed by a good-natured, rather deaf old woman whom they called "saiyett" when they remembered-she was fairly pelted with questions, but had little or no trouble in answering them or in giving a convincing account of herself; for though perky and inquisitive as blue-tits, they were not in the least skeptical and ready enough to accept whatever she told them. How had she hurt her face so badly? Oh, she'd been tripped up in the market by some lout who thought it was funny. One of her boy-friends had thrashed him for it. They must have had a rough day's journey: her clothes were in such a state? Oh, this had once been a party tunic belonging to a rich Beklan lady- a friend of her master-who'd given it to her as a cast-off. That's why there were leopards on the pockets. It had been nice once, but since it was as good as finished she'd thought she might as well wear it out on the journey. It hadn't been a good idea, though; it was too thick and held the sweat. She was hoping to pick up something else. They were a long way off the direct road to Urtah, surely? Oh, her master had some relatives he wanted to visit further west-no, she couldn't say exactly where, never having been there as yet-but that was what had taken them out of their way.

Then, after a pause in the talk, "Are you a slave?" asked one of the girls suddenly, in a kind of quick little spurt of utterance, as though she had finally screwed herself up to the point of asking. One or two of the other girls giggled with nervous embarrassment, but nevertheless it was clear that they were all waiting for her reply.

"Not anymore," answered Maia, smiling. "I've been freed."

This let loose a flood of exclamations and further questions. "But you're no age!" "Were you born on a slave-farm?" "How long have you been free?" "Did you have to pay?" "You don't look a bit Like a slave!"

Maia, catching on to the last of these as the easiest to answer, asked teasingly, "What d'you reckon a slave looks like, then?"

To her surprise this did not seem to go down very well. Most of the girls looked grave and there was a little pause. Then one said, "Well, o' course we didn' mean nothin' personal, not if you've been a slave, like, but so happens there's one of these new slave-farms not so very far off from here, where the poor children's actually bred for slavery, to be taken away when they're old enough. We all feel sorry for them. My dad told me it belongs to some of those rich Leopards up in Bekla."

"Ah, that's right," said an older lass, "and 'twas the Leopards as brought the farms in, too, 'cause they wanted even more slaves-more than they dared take from the villages and from ordinary folk like us. There weren't any slave-farms, my mum said, not when she was a girl."

"I didn't come from a slave-farm," said Maia.

"Then were you-" began the girl; but another, interrupting her, cut in, "We heard about that big Leopard baron, or whatever he was; him as was murdered at the festival-terrible bloody murder, they say-and they've never found the ones as did it, neither."

"Oh, I can tell you all about that," said Maia, glad of an opportunity to distract them from any further inquiries about herself. "I was actually in the gardens by the lake that night, when it happened."

This, of course, had all the effect she was hoping for, and the whole group listened agog to her description of the party by the Barb, the murder of Sencho and the mysterious disappearance of his assailants. Of her own relationship to the High Counselor she naturally said nothing.

"Must 'a bin someone important behind it, though, mustn't there?" said the older girl, when Maia had finished.

"Well, 'twasn't you, Gehta, anyway," cried a little, merry girl, with black eyes and a snub nose. "That's for sure!" Then, turning to Maia, she added rather unnecessarily,

"I'm only teasing, you know. But Gehta's a real Leopard- we all tell her so. If she'd 'a bin there she'd have gone and saved that fat old Counselor, sure enough."