She was the slave who,
earlier, had been used by Yellow-Knives as, in effect, a lure girl, one
used to distract or, say, entrap a warrior. Cotanka had been fortunate. He
had not been killed. He now owned her. I did not think her lot would be an
easy one. She wore the “bonds of the master’s will.” Grunt had put her in
them. She lay on her stomach. Her wrists were crossed behind her. Her
ankles, too, were crossed. She was “bound.” She could not rise to her feet.
Yet there was not a rope or a strap on her body. She was “bound by the
master’s will.” She could not move from this position unless, at the word
of a free person, she was freed from it. To break the position otherwise
is to be instantly slain.
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“Slave,” I said.
“Yes, Master,” she said.
“You do not seem to be sleepy,” I observed.
“No, Master,” she said.
“But it does not matter, whether you are or not,” I said.
“No, Master,” she said.
“For you are a slave,” I said.
“Yes, Master,” she said.
“Slave,” I said.
“Yes, Master,” she said.
“Crawl to me on your belly,” I said.
“Yes, Master,” she said, smiling.
“Now kneel before me,” I said, “with your knees wide, with your wrists
crossed behind you, touching, as though bound.”
“Yes, Master,” she said. She was then before me, in a posture of my
dictation, and, as it is said, bound by my will.
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