I could hear him talking, and she got up from the ground. I saw her shadow cover his. Yet he must have been stronger than he looked, or braver, or stupider. He pulled her roughly by her knotted wrists, down the bare slope from the trees where they had left her with the animals, until she stood in the firelight, humiliated, her shoulders bent. I recognized her, though they had tied a cloth bag over her head. I recognized her body—naked from the waist, her wide hips. Her legs were spattered with mud, and she was bleeding from a wound on the outside of her thigh. Her feet were bare.

They had built their fire in a space between some large rocks, and I was watching their shadows on the uneven surface. At first the flames were high, their shadows long and menacing, but now the fire had settled somewhat. And when I saw my sister with them, they no longer seemed so fearsome. Without thinking, I had thought that there were lots of them, but there were not. Barbarians have names for any kind of quantity; they are in love with numbers. But such things are difficult for us. There, that night, there were not many: the fat man, the musician, and another with a long gun standing up between his knees. I could see the shadow of it on the rock.

The musician pulled the bag away from her face, and I saw her tangled yellow hair, her nose, her heavy lips. She was beautiful. He must have thought so too, for he put his fingers to her face and to her hair, catching at the tangles, pulling them back from her forehead. And when he forced her face into the light, I felt a sudden surge of joy. I was happy to see her. Happy to see her proud and unafraid, for there was nothing in her eyes but hatred. I could almost hear the song of it, but the barbarian could not. He pushed the hair back from her face, and she let him touch her without moving, touch her bruised cheeks, her torn and broken lips. He said, “Don’t be afraid. We won’t hurt you. Understand?” She made no movement.

“Don’t be afraid,” he repeated. “Here, drink,” and he brought a cup of something to her mouth. She swallowed it in silence. She finished it. “Here,” he said, and squatting, he pulled a square of cloth out from beneath his shirt. There was a plastic bucket on the ground; he wet the napkin and stood up again to clean her face. “There,” he said. “We mean you no harm.”

One sat on the rocks, fingering his gun. “There’s no point in talking,” he said. “It can’t understand you.”

“I think she can. Can you?” he asked her. “Would you like something to eat? You must be hungry.” She shook her head. “You see?” he said, gesturing to his companions. “You see? She understands. My name is . . .” something, he said, pointing to himself.