“Three rings!” cried a high fellow in one of the Alemanni tribes, the Dangars.
“Five!” cried another fellow, from another of the Alemanni tribes, the Teragar, or Long-River, Borkons.
“No, no!” cried a man, angrily. “See the scale! It tips to the skull! It points to death!”
“No rings of gold for her!” cried a man.
“Would that I had a ring of gray, base lead, to hurl it into the pan of death!” cried another.
Huta hurried to the fellow who had cried this out, and fell to her knees before him, some feet before his table, and then, on her knees, with her body and arms, to the music, lifting her arms to him, so danced, on her knees, in supplication before him.
“Ai!” cried a man.
The fellow tried to turn away, but in a moment, furious, tears streaming down his face, turned again, to regard the slave.
Huta lifted her dark, glorious hair, spreading it about herself, and then shielded herself with it and then, as though timidly, and as if commanded, drew it away from her body, looking at the fellow, as though shyly, frightened, as though he had ordered this done.
“Ai!” he cried, in fury.
And then, to the music, she wrapped the hair about her wrists, as though they might be bound, and then placed her wrists, crossed, behind the back of her head, holding them there, as though they were bound there, and then, before him, regarding him fearfully, surged, and struggled, as though helplessly, as though striving to free herself from bonds, but futilely.
“How now will you cast your pellet?” inquired a fellow at his elbow.
He put his head down, weeping, striking the table with his fists.
And Huta was up, to dance before another. “I will fill your drinking horn with emeralds for her!” called a high fellow of the Aramars, one of many tribes allied with the Alemanni.
“A thousand rubies!” cried another fellow, from the Vessites, the Copper People.
“A diamond from Kolchis III!” cried another fellow, a Buron, from Safa Minor.
There were a great many tribes, and peoples, allied with, or well disposed toward, the Alemanni.
In the Alemanni nation itself, as we have mentioned, there were eleven tribes.
“Dance, slave, dance!” cried a man.
“Yes, Master!” cried Huta.
Huta could not but have been aware of the effect of her dance on the feasters, and, in particular, on the humans, the Alemanni and others, and, indeed, even on certain of the other species as well, some not even closely kindred to the human species. As we have suggested, several of these species kept human females as slaves, putting them to a variety of purposes.
Huta began to suspect, the hope rising in her, suddenly, irresistibly, wildly, elatedly, in her dance, that she might have a chance for life, that she might be able to exert some real influence in her favor, however small, on the dark matter which, only too realistically, hung in the balance.
“Dance!” cried another.
“Yes, Master!” she cried.
I may live, she thought wildly. I may live!
She swayed, meaningfully, before a man.
She read his keen desire in his eyes.
I have power, she thought. I have the power of a slave!
“See! She grows proud!” cried a man.
This terrified Huta, whose slavery then was only too clearly recalled to her.
She flung herself to the rush-strewn, dirt floor, rolling and begging, prostrating herself, piteously.
Her movements said, I am not proud! I am weak and helpless, and I beg mercy!
“Oh!” she suddenly cried, as she lay supine, in the dirt. Her hips suddenly shook, and rocked, uncontrollably. She lifted herself a little, with her hands and her heels. Her haunches heaved, and she was startled. Her hips bucked. She lost the music, bewildered, for a moment, turning to her side, pulling her legs up, in consternation, trying to hide and cover herself.
There was laughter.
“Oh!” cried more than one of the ladies of the empire, moving wildly on her knees. Many of the others turned scarlet, trying to cover themselves.
“Finish your dance!” cried a man.
But Huta, now, could do little more than crawl on her knees, her stomach moving, to reach the foot of the dais.
“Take the vote!”
“Cast the pellets!” cried men.
“Mercy, Master!” wept Huta, beside herself in misery, and bewilderment, her eyes wide, her hands at her hips.
Muchly then was there laughter.
“Behold the needful, helpless slave!” cried a man.
Huta cast a pathetic, helpless glance at him.
“Masters! Masters!” cried one of the former ladies of the empire. “We are yours! Take pity on us!”
“Down!” cried one of the lads, savagely, lashing across the shoulder with his supple, greenwood switch she who had cried out. The former lady of the empire put her head down, bent far over, weeping, clutching her thighs.