The men and bond-maids about laughed.

“You have taught me to heel,” she said, “Ivar Forkbeard, but you have not taught me to obey!”

“Strip her,” said the Forkbeard to the bond-maids. They leaped eagerly upon Hilda the Haughty.

In moments the proud girl, naked, was held before the Forkbeard. Olga held one arm, Pretty Ankles the other.

“Gunnhild is better,” said Pouting Lips.

It was true. But Hilda the Haughty was a superb piece of female flesh. In almost any market she would surely have drawn a high price.

She struggled, held. She had a fair throat, good shoulders; she was marvelously breasted; her waist was such that one could get his hands on it well; she n~ight have been a bit broad in the beam but I had no objection to this; in the north it is called the love cradle; it was well adapted to cushion the shocks of an oarsman’s pleasure; in the south she would have been said to be sweetly hipped; if the Forkbeard wished to breed her she would bear healthy, strong young to his thralls, enriching his ~arm; her thighs, too, were lovely, and her calves; her ankles, while not thick, as Pretty Ankles had asserted, were heavier than those of Thyri, or Pretty Ankles herse~; Hilda was, of course, a somewhat large~ girl; she was probably some five years oider than Pretty Ankles, and a year or so older than Thyri; Gunnhild was larger than Hilda; she was also, I ex~?ected, about a year or two older. I had no objection to Hilda’s ankles; I found them quite lovely; they would take a common girlf~tter nicely, with about a quarter inch tolerance.

Then Hilda stopped struggling and, held, head high, regarded the Forkbeard.

He examined her with grloat care, as he had his Sa-Tarna, and his animals, when he had inspected his farm.

He got up from his knees, where he had been feeling the firmness of her left calf and ankle.

Then he said to the bond-maids, “Take her to the whipping post.”

The bond-maids, laughing, dragged Hilda to the post, stout, of peeled wood, which stood outside the hall. Ottar then, with a scrap of binding fiber, crossed and rudely bound, before her body, the wrists of the daughter of Thorgard of Scagnar; he then, reaching up, fastened her wrists to the heavy iron ring over her head. Her breasts were against the post; she could not place her heels on the ground.

“How dare you place me in this position, Ivar Forkbeard!” she demanded. “I am a free woman!”

“Bring the five-strap slave slash,” said Ivar Forkbeard to Gunnhild.

“Yes, my Jarl,” she said, smiling. She ran to fetch it.

“I am the daughter of Thorgard of Scagnar,” said Hilda. “Release me immediately.”

The lash was placed by Gunnhild in the hand of Ivar Forkbeard.

Ottar threw the girl’s hair forward, so that it fell before her shoulders.

“No!” cried Hilda.

The Forkbeard touched her back with the whip; his fist held the handle and, too, beneath his fist, folded back, were the five straps. He tapped her twice.

“No!” she cried. “Please, no!”

We fell back to give the Forkbeard room, and he shook loose the straps and drew back his arm.

The first stroke threw her against the post; I saw the astonishrnent,~n her eyes, then the pain; the daughter of Thorgard seemed stunned; then she howled in misery; it was only then that she realized what the whip might do to a girl. “I will obey you!” she screamed. “I will obey you!” Ivar Forkbeard, experienced in the disciplining of women, did not deliver the second stroke for a full Ehn. In this time, she screamed, over and over, “I will obey you!” Then he struck again. Her body, again, was struck against the post; her hands twisted in the binding fiber; her entire body rubbed on the post, in agony, pressing against it; tears burst from he eyes; she was on her tiptoes, pressing against the post; hes thighs were on either side of the post; but the post did not yield; she was fastened to it. Then he struck again. She writhed, twisting and howling.

“I ask only to obey you!” she cried. “I beg to obey you!”

When he next struck she could only close her eyes in pain. She could then scarcely breathe. She gasped. No longer could she howl or scream. She tensed, teeth gritted, her body itself a silent scream of agony. But the blow did not then fall. Was the beating done. Then she was struck again. The last five blows were de livered with her hanging in the binding fiber, her body against the post, her face to one side of it. She was then released from the post and fell to her hands and knees. The beating had been quite light, only twenty strokes. Yet I did not think it would be soon that the daughter of Thorgard of Scagnar would wish to find herself again at the post. The beating had been, though light, quite adequate to its purpose, which was to teach her, a captive, the whip.

No female forgets it.

She looked up at the Forkbeard in misery.

“Bring her clothing,” said the Forkbeard.

It was brought.

“Garb yourself,” said the Forkbeard.

Painfully, almost unable to stand, tears in her eyes, inch by inch, the girl drew on her garments.

She then stood there among us, bent over, tears staining her cheeks. She wore the dress of green velvet trimmed with gold, it torn from the collar, it ripped at the right side.

She looked at him.

“Remove your clothing,” he said.

She stripped herself.

“Gather the clothing,” said the Forkbeard.

She dld so.

“Go now to the kitchen of the hall,” said he. “In the fire there, burn your clothing, completely.”

“Yes, Ivar Forkbeard,” she said.

“Gunnhild will accompany you,” he said. “When you have burned your garments, every bit of them, then beg Gunnhild to set you about your duties.”

“What duties, my Jarl,” asked Gunnhild.

“Tonight we feast,” said Ivar Forkbeard. “The feast must be prepared.”

“She is to help prepare the feast?” asked Gunnhild.

“And serve it,” said the Forkbeard.

“I see, then, the nature of her duties,” said Gunnhild, smiling.

“Yes,” said Ivar Forkbeard. He regarded Hilda. “You will beg Gunnhild to set you about the duties of a bond-maid.”

“Yes,” said she, “Ivar Forkbeard.”

“Hurry now,” laughed he.

Weeping, clutching her clothing, she ran to the hall. The men and bond-maids laughed muchly. I, too, roared with laughter. Hilda the Haughty, daughter of Thorgard of Scagnar, had been taught to obey.

The shrieking of Pouting Lips, as she yielded to Gorm, supine, kicking in the furs, rang through the low, smoking hall.

I thrust Thyri from my lap, and seized Olga by the wrist, as she hurried past, throwing her across my knees. She, laughing, was fleeing Ottar who, drunkenly, was stumbling after her. I pulled Olga’s face to mine and our lips met, I forcing my kiss to her teeth. Her naked body, collared, suddenly responded to mine, and she reached for me with her hands. “MyJarl!” she whispered. But I thrust her up, holding her by the arms, into the hands of Ottar, who, laughing, tbrew her lightly over his shoulder and turned about. I saw her head and shoulders, and her body, to the waist, over his shoulder, her small fists pounding meaninglessly on his back. He carried her into the darkness and threw her to the furs. “MyJarl,” whimpered Thyri, crouching beside me, touching me. With a laugh, she crying out with pleasure, I took again the young lady of Kassau, the bond-maid, Thyri, in my arms.

Pretty Ankles hurried past, carrying a great trencher of roast meat on her small shoulder.

“Mead!” called Ivar Forkbeard, from across from me.

“Mead!” He held out the great, curved horn, with its rim fillgreed gold.

Pudding and Gunnhild knelt on the bench, snuggli~ against him, one on either side. But they did not run to fet~ his mead. That duty, this night, befell another.

Hilda the Haughty, ~daughter of Thorgard of Scagnar, stripped as any bond-maid, from a large bronze vess~ poured mead for the Forkbeard.