"Doubtless she has seen slaves kneel in such a way," said Marcus.

"Probably," I said. It was a common position of slave obeisance.

"She is a slave," he said.

"She is frightened," I said.

"She is a slave," he said.

"That, too," I granted him.

"Look up, girl," said Marcus.

She looked up, frightened.

"Are you a slave?" asked Marcus.

Her lip trembled.

"She is legally free," I pointed out.

"Are you a slave?" pressed Marcus.

"Yes," she whispered.

"Yes, what?" he asked.

"Yes, Master," she whispered. I suspected she had used that word to men before only in her imagination, or speaking it softly to her pillow in the night. "Legally free," he said, "but still a slave, and rightfully so?" he asked. "Yes, Master," she said.

"Lacking only the legalities of the brand and collar?" he asked.

"Yes, Master!" she said.

"Yet she is young to be a slave," I said.

"Do you think we cannot be slaves?" she asked.

"Some men enjoy them," said Marcus, "squirming in the furs, panting, begging for more."

The girl closed her eyes, and sobbed. I wondered if she understood these things. "She is young," I said.

"Do you scorn me for my youth?" she asked. "Do you think we do have feelings? Do you think we are not yet capable of love, that we are not yet women? You are wrong! How little you understand us! We are young and desirable, and ready to serve!"

"You are young," I said. "Your surrender cannot be the full surrender of the mature woman, the woman experienced in life, the woman who has come to understand the barrenness of the conventions by which she is expected to abide, who has discerned the vacuity of the principles to which she is expected to mindlessly subscribe, who has learned the emptiness of the roles imposed upon her by society, roles alien to, and inimical to, the needs of her deepest self. You are not such a woman, a full, mature, knowledgeable, cognizant woman, a woman profoundly in touch with her passion and deepest self, one who has come to understand that her only hope for true happiness and fulfillment lies in obedience, love and service, one craving the collar, one yearning for a master."

"No, no, no!" she wept. "I am young, but I am a woman, and alive! Do you think that intelligence and maturity are prerogatives only of such as you! No! I am quick at my studies! I am alert! I think much! I am dutiful! I want to make a man happy, truly happy, in the fullest dimensions of his being, not a part of him, leaving the rest to hide, or shrivel and die! I cannot know my bondage if he does not learn his mastery! Why should his birthright be denied to him, and mine to me? As the master needs the slave so, too, the slave needs the master! I was taken aback by her words. I recalled how quietly she had lain in the box, that her veil had been disarranged when first the guardsmen, and Marcus and myself, had looked upon her. She was undoubtedly of high intelligence. Such is valued considerably, of course, in a slave. It makes them much better slaves. How much more tactful, sensitive and inventive are intelligent slaves! Indeed, the intelligence of some slaves blossoms in bondage, seemingly at last finding the apt environment for its flowering. To be sure, when a girl knows she may feel the lash for a mistake, she tends to become considerably more alert. "What have we here," asked Marcus, "a little scribe?"

"I am no stranger to scrolls," she said.

"You are still young," I said.

"That does not mean I cannot feel," she said. "That does not mean I am stupid." I had no doubt that in time she would make an excellent slave. Indeed, I could well imagine her, even now, serving in a house, deferentially, with belled ankles.

"I heard one speaking earlier," she said, "of the loot area in the district of Anbar."

"Can you not wait to be shackled and thrown into the loot pits with other women, to await the collar and brand?" inquired Marcus.

"Take me there!" she demanded.

Instantly, appropriately, he lashed her head to the side with the back of his right hand.

She was struck to the ground with the force of the blow and at a snapping of his fingers, and his gesture, she struggled again to her knees before us, her mouth bloody. Her eyes were wide. It was perhaps the first time she had been cuffed. Marcus glared down at her. He did not have much patience with slaves. Phoebe had often learned that to her dismay. To be sure, she was scarcely ever struck or beaten now. She had become a superb slave in the past few months, under Marcus' tutelage.

"Forgive me, Master," she said. "I was not respectful. It was appropriate that I be cuffed."

In her eyes there were awe and admiration for Marcus. She saw that he would not hesitate to impose discipline upon her.

"It is common," I said, "for a slave to request permission to speak."

"Forgive me, Master," she said, putting down her head.

"You said you were no stranger to scrolls," I said.

"To some, Master," she said. "I did not mean to be arrogant. If I have not been pleasing, lash me."

"Have you read," I asked, "the Manuals of the Pens of Mira, Leonora's Compendium, the Songs of Dina, or Hargon's The Nature and Arts of the Female Slave?"

"No, Master," she said, eagerly. Such texts, and numerous others, like them, are sometimes utilized in a girl's training, particularly by professional slavers. Sometimes they are read aloud in training sessions by a scribe, a whip master in attendance. Most girls are eager to acquire such knowledge. Indeed, they often ply one another for secrets of love, makeup, costuming, perfuming, dance, and such, as each wishes to be as perfect for her master as it lies within her power to be. Also, of course, such diligence is prudential on her part. She will be lashed if she is not pleasing. Also, her very life, literally, is in his hands. Perhaps a word is in order pertaining to the Songs of Dina. Some free women claim that this book, which is supposedly written by Din, "a slave", which continues to appear in various editions and revisions, because of its intelligence and sensitivity, is actually, and must be, written by a free woman. I suspect, on the other hand, that it is truly by a slave, as is claimed on the title page. There are two reasons for this. First, "Dina' is a common slave name, often given to girls with the "Dina' brand, which is a small, roselike brand. Second, the nature of the songs themselves. No free woman could have sung of chains and love, and the lash, and the glory of masters as she. Those are songs which, in my opinion, could be written only by a woman who knew what it was to be at a man's slave ring. As to the matter of the poetess' intelligence and sensitivity, I surely grant them to the free women, but maintain that such are entirely possible in a slave, and even more to expected in her than in them. I suspect their position may even be inconsistent. When a women is enslaved, for example, surely they do not suppose that her intelligence and sensitivity disappear. Surely they would not expect theirs to do so, if they had them. No, she still has them. Also, it has been my personal experience, for what it is worth, that slaves are almost always more intelligent and sensitive than free women, who often, at least until taken in hand, tend to be ignorant, smug, vain and stupid. Also, it might be noted that many women are enslaved nto simply because it is convenient to do so, the ropes are handy, so to speak, or because they are beautiful of face and figure, but actually because of their intelligence and sensitivity, qualifies which appeal to many Gorean men. indeed, as I have suggested, the intelligence and sensitivity of many women actually tends to blossom in bondage, finding within it the apt environment for its expression, for its flowering. This may have to do with such matters as the release of inhibitions, happiness, fulfillment, and such. I do not know. "What of the Prition of Clearchus of Cos?" I asked.