Someone threw a burning coal dropped from the brand, hissing and laughing and licking their fingers as it left them. It hit me on one shin. I managed to restrain my groan but though the coal was out as soon as it landed, the cloth of my tights was alight. Everybody must have heard the flurry I made as I beat it out.

Turg now swung his brand in artistic arcs. He knew he had me trapped and that he commanded everyone’s breathless attention. No one was likely to look away no matter how long he took just now. He played with my suspense. I had time to consider the death a governor’s murderer gets—slow flaying from the feet up.

At that moment I remembered my knife.

I drew out the chain from the neck of my shirt, pulled the knife from its sheath and stood up, crouching. Each foot balanced on a thin wooden rafter and the snake still wreathed heavy about me.

The light swung ever nearer like a slow menacing pendulum.

The knife slit busily deep through the turf roof-thatch.

The next arc would be two feet from me—unless Turg decided to end it all and flash straight to the comer. The turf was lumpily parting.

The next arc would be one foot from me—unless Turg was tired now of the game, so near its ending.

I stooped for my Diary, clasped it to me, reached for the supplementary rafters above me, found it was no good with one hand, stowed the Diary precariously in the chest of my jerkin (hoping the belt wouldn’t give way) as the arc swung at me and passed me. I seized the upper rafters, leapt up, bursting through the roof, throwing off the snake, and my nostrils and my face met the air of the free night. I heard my left sandal fall, clattering, fall down behind me.

Emerging all into the starry air, I sped over the roof. I went as quickly as possible for reasons of flight but would have had to anyway, as at each step I nearly went through, The roof was soon a ruin behind me.

I leapt down as soon as I could.

The ground was a terrifying way away, and it was a tree branch I leapt for. The big Diary in my jerkin nearly fell; I saved it, nearly overbalancing, and drew back into the foliage as a sudden uproar in the hut showed that they’d discovered I was gone.

Pouring out from the doorway in full cry—I couldn’t know whether they had noticed the tumbling cut roof or not—they streamed past the bole of my protector the tree. Up about my ears the sweet leaves rustled, living, fresh scented silk against living, fresh scented silk. The breezes blew down the back of my neck.

When the human hunters had passed, I shinned down.