went to the kitchen door (it was there that they had had the meal) and opened it to the cold air. She saw that it was now quite dark outside, though there were stars. She wondered whether those stars would show any difference from their order in her own time. But, if they did, she would be unlikely to see it. Her knowledge of the constellations was too vague for that.
The long fur garment hung loosely from his shoulders. Now, feeling the cold air, he drew it closely together, tying it down the front. Seeing this, she fastened her own in the same manner.
He said: “It’s a short way to go. Can you carry a ham?”
“I can carry hers.”
He did not appear to observe the tone. But she had learned already that his thoughts were not easy to read. Her predecessor (if she were really destined to take the vacated place) had certainly not been more successful in this. That belly-thrust must have been quite a surprise! It was a pleasant thought, which would have been more pleasant still could she have been quite sure that she would not be surprised in the same way.
They went by a narrow, tree-shadowed path, he going ahead, and she following closely behind. In a few minutes they came to a clearing with a low-roofed house in its midst, similar to that which they had left. There was no fence or garden round it, as she was vaguely aware, her eyes having become used to the darkness beneath the trees. They went up to a door which opened at once, showing a fire-lit interior similar to that from which they had come.
A man faced them, with his back to the light, so that his features were not easy to see, but in build and height he was so nearly alike to the one who stood beside her that Gleda wondered whether there were a single pattern for all the men of that land.
When he saw who was there, he stood aside, saying, in the same toneless manner of speech: “Come in, Lemno, come in.”
Lemno took Gleda’s burden from her. He handed it to the man, saying: “I have brought you the ham I owe.”
“That is good to hear. How did you get it?”
“It is Destra’s.”
“Destra is dead?”
“Well, I owed you a debt. And I may have got a new wife.”
This remark turned their host’s eyes upon Gleda. He grunted, then returned to the more urgent consideration. “Is it cooked?”
“No. She was only dead in the last hour.”
“Then it soon will be. We have had no more than ten nuts today. We scrape in the forest mud for that which we seldom find. Plera,” he raised his voice, “here is food. We must stoke the pot.”
Plera came from an inner room. She was a more lithe, better-featured woman than Destra had been. She asked “What is it?” There was eagerness in her voice.
“It is the ham that was owed to us. Destra’s ham.”
There was a note of incredulous merriment in the reply: “Destra’s ham? Her own leg? Then she is dead! It is too good to be true.”
There were no more words while, for the next few minutes, man and woman were busy about the hearth. Then Plera looked at Gleda for the first time. She said bluntly: “What are you? You must have been tied by the legs.”
Lemno said: “I fetched her from the other side of the river.”
There were two cries of surprise. Relf asked: “How could you do that?”
“Well, I did. Hunger drives hard.”
Plera looked at her with more appreciative eyes than before. “So there will be more meat to come?”
Lemno shrugged. Gleda was not sure that she liked that. Yet it might have been worse. And it might mean no more than that he would keep his own counsel from those whose whom it did not concern. He said: “I must get back. I have been away from my work all day. When I think of the books that are still unread!”
“Yes, I have been busy. What are you reading now?”
“I am no further than the middle of the twentieth century of what was known as the Christian era during its own time. Others who built on its ruins gave it a worse name. It was a time foul beyond any words which are easy to find. Much of its records are unfit for the reading of decent eyes. Even though we starve, we may be of grateful heart that we live in a better day.”
There was animation in their voices which Gleda had not heard before. She saw that they spoke of matters of greater interest to themselves than even a fat ham.
Well, she could tell him more about them than he would be likely to guess. He would be surprised if he knew how much!
But she had been puzzled by his remark that it had been so much fouler than his own time. It seemed a queer boast to make while his friends were putting his wife’s ham into the pot—a wife who had been murdered by him. And it must be such an ordinary thing that the question of penalty or concealment did not arise! It must be no more than daily routine, And yet the dual memories which she had did not support the idea without most important qualification. She knew that cannibalism was not the custom of her side of the river, and had not thought it to be on this. Of course, there was the famine, of which she had not heard till she had been brought here. It might go far to justify her capture. But his own wife! She saw that it was no argument to observe that it had been fortunate for her. She must think it out. Or perhaps ask. But she spoke with caution on any matter. Her captor might have many virtues—she hoped he had. But, so far, he had not seemed to be of a chatty kind.
As she thought this, they were returning through the trees, and could already see the light of their own—home? She wondered what sort of home it would be for her.
CHAPTER IV: A QUESTION IN THE NIGHT
When they had regained the inner room, Lemno turned and looked at her in a speculative way, and there were some silent moments before he asked: “You would be my wife?”
“Have I a choice?”
“You would prefer me to the pot?”
“Yes, I would.” As she said it, a fear came. Suppose he should think her to be too cold, too reluctant in her replies? Might he not reject her for that? Suppose he should say at last: “But I am now of another mind. It is to the pot you shall go.” Yet to profess desire for him, after the circumstances which had brought her there, might be going too far. She might be unable to give it a genuine sound. She said: “It is more than that. I am alone in a strange place. Who have I to look to but you? I might be of more use than you can yet see.”
“A strange place?” he repeated. “I should say the difference is much less than that.” She saw that he followed her words with a mind that was keen and alert, and that there had been something puzzling, less perhaps in the word than the tone in which it had been said. The partial consciousness of her earlier existence which had been allowed to remain had a treacherous side, which had nearly betrayed her now. Yet how dare she explain? She said weakly: “There are differences between the way I lived and what I have seen here.”
He conceded, fairly enough: “Well, there are some,” with no belief in his voice.
She thought it well to add: “There is the fact that I am here.”
