an accuracy of vision that might have been her brother’s. The grip shifted to the right hand only; Tarrik leant over and picked her up like a rabbit; she felt the linen of her shift tear all along the seam, and screamed. But by that time she was on the horse and Tarrik had loosed the reins; she held on to the mane with both hands, half across its neck, her balance all wrong, with nothing in her mind but the flying ground, the danger. Then Tarrik pulled her up, shifting back in the saddle himself, so that she had a little room, and holding her tight against him.
They were out of the camp; for a minute or two Erif Der was too dazed to tell which way. All down one side she was sore and bruised; she was being treated as a thing, not a person! Tarrik was saying something; she squared her shoulders and butted her head back sharp against his chin; he squeezed her so hard that she almost cried, not quite, though. She began to work her free hand in under the other that he held so tight against her, under her shift, finger-tips groping for the star. She felt its chain, the pin that fastened it, one point. She was all screwed up to get it, the words she must say were on her tongue; she was as clear headed as possible.
It pulled up, into her fingers. And then Tarrik caught her hand in his and jerked savagely; the chain bit into her neck, then broke, but she still had the star. His hard, terrible fingers were digging it out of her palm. She bit his other arm, got hers free, and reached back for his face, his eyes, something to go for. He got her tight again, wrist and face, bruising her lips with his arm-bones, and his other hand tore out the star and threw it away. Her teeth closed on saltish linen and skin and muscle, and she threw herself sideways with a kick against the side of the saddle. They hit the ground both together, rolled over half a dozen times. After that, she was almost too done to struggle or fight him any more.
By and bye Tarrik, beginning to realise how black and blue he was himself, asked her if she was hurt. She shook her head sullenly and sat up. Tarrik, not having, on the whole, had much to do with virgins, did not really know how much hurt she was likely to be, quite apart from falling off a galloping horse. Still, he was not very happy; he did not like her looking grey at the lips. She got to her knees, and began slowly to look at all the tears in her linen shift; it was torn right down the front at one side and she pulled the three-cornered piece up quickly over herself and held the top edges together in her fist. But there was nothing to fasten it with; she let it go to rub her fist across her eyes; after all, it was silly to mind if Tarrik did see her breast now. She didn’t think she could ever mind anything after this—he seemed to have broken all the clean, sharp edges of her feeling for ever. He rolled back his own sleeves to see her teeth marks and a little blood; she had bitten his neck worse, though. The horse had come back, and whinnied to them questioningly from the top of a ridge. She tried to stand, but failed altogether; he caught her and stopped her falling; together they looked at her ankle. ‘You must have come down on it,’ he said. She nodded; it was beginning to send shoots of pain up her leg, the under side of her knee, drowning everything else. ‘I’ll get some water,’ said Tarrik. ‘What else?’
She looked at him. ‘If I had my star,’ she said, and watched him run off down their track, and presently stoop and pick it up.
He brought it back. ‘You’ll magic me, too?’ he asked, still keeping it tight.
She held out her hand. ‘Oh, give it me!—Tarrik.’
‘But will you?’ She began to cry hard, partly at the check to what she wanted, partly at the softness of his voice—getting at her, trying to stop her hating him and all the violence and pain that was part of him. ‘Will you, Erif dear?’ he said again. ‘I don’t want to be turned into a bear.’
‘I can’t,’ she said, sniffing, ‘it’s too difficult. I haven’t learnt.’
‘Well, anything. I don’t want to be magicked. Will you not, Erif?’
She said nothing for a moment, then; ‘Not just now.’
He gave it to her. She fastened on to it, leant forward, and touched her foot all over with it. The pain went further and further back, till she scarcely felt it, only, behind it and coming into consciousness now, the deep bruising of her thighs. He bandaged her ankle as she told him, with a bit of his own shirt. ‘Now I want the star back,’ he said, and opened her hand and took it.
‘I can do magic without that,’ said Erif Der.
‘You can’t ever magic the Greek bit of me.’ She said nothing. ‘Not even when we’re married. Can you?’
‘I haven’t tried,’ said Erif Der, ‘but I will. And I do hate you, Tarrik.’
He put on his crown again, caught the horse and lifted her on, then went to its head and led it back towards the camp; neither of them said anything more. When they were in sight, he took off his felt coat and gave it to her; she found it hid a good deal, but smelt of him. Harn Der came out to meet them, with Berris; both were armed, but she was afraid they were not going to do anything. Tarrik left her and went forward by himself to speak to her father; she could not hear what they were saying. Berris stared at her, questioning with his eyebrows; she put out her tongue at him. By and bye Harn Der came up and stood beside her. ‘So you’re a woman now, my daughter.’ ‘And you don’t care,’ she said, ‘how I’m hurt, how I’m dishonoured.’ ‘Well,’ he said, smiling at her, ‘you were betrothed. It’s nothing to make a song about. Go to your mother, Erif.’ He went back to the Chief, and Berris said: ‘It serves you right for magicking people.’ ‘Well, who told me to?’ said she furiously. ‘Oh, of course,’ said Berris, ‘but you know you like doing it. You think you’re clever.’
She leant forward and hit the horse on the neck, and sent it clattering off towards the tents, nearly throwing her. She called for her mother; the foot was hurting again, it wanted magic. The women helped her into her mother’s tent, saying nothing, because they saw she was angry, and knew what she could do to them if she chose to use her power. The old nurse brought her clean clothes, her best, and warm water, and olive oil, and soft woollen towels to wash with. Then at last came her mother, Nerrish, so small and quiet and shadowy in her grey dress, that she was hardly there. She sat beside Erif, holding her hand, crumbling something over her hair, while the girl cried solidly for ten minutes. Nerrish knew a great deal about people and a great deal about magic, but it had worn her out. She felt very old, she could scarcely deal with her children, hardly ever thought of the younger ones. But she would give what she had to this elder one who was most like her, whose life she could best see into. After a time Erif fell asleep, and while the sleep was at its heaviest, her mother and nurse undressed her and washed her, and saw to the bruises and the twisted ankle, and dressed her again, and plaited ribbons into her hair, and discussed between themselves, in very low voices, the doings of that curious, savage creature man, and how one should deal with him and overcome him. Then they moved a little brazier of burning charcoal close to the girl’s head, and Nerrish laid some large, flat leaves on it. The smoke rose and hung and spread itself upwards along the walls of the tent; Erif Der lay and slept, breathing easily, the colour coming back into her cheeks.
Meanwhile the horse had found its way back to Tarrik, and stood, with twitching ears, blowing into the palm of his hand. He had just said to Harn Der: ‘Three days ago I killed Epigethes,’ and was watching to see what would happen next. Harn Der said nothing at all for the moment, but breathed heavily. Berris, though, had heard. ‘You haven’t done that,’ he said, ‘Tarrik!’ And then, seeing it was true, covered eyes with hands in sheer horror.
Said Harn Der: ‘This was—unwise.’
‘Yes,’ said Tarrik, and began laughing as he had that day at the Council.
‘Why did you do it, Chief?’ said the older man.
But Tarrik went on laughing and then suddenly
