smoothly-scaled ripple of the muscles of the mighty bas-relief back. The sway of the bird was enough to ensure that my own breasts had just sufficient maddening freedom to quiver or be thrust against these muscles, so that I was as shamed as someone can be whose main consciousness is centred on approaching severance from life itself. The only reason I was glad he was wearing only a shirt, no jerkin even, was that it was poor protection if anybody happened to throw something very pointed at him. But we were among the Golds, and the streets were wider, and somehow it didn’t happen.

I kept my hands lax in his. I hoped he might slacken his attention. Then maybe I’d be able to get at least one arm free. But even when he raised a hand to wave a brief greeting to another commander, he kept my fingers barred in his and my arm was raised to make the wave too.

It would probably be beheading. They were good with their swords, some of the guards, swift and sure. It was only the imminent, quickly nearer, unknown I had to fear, not the pain. Yet in the confusion and business of getting under tentage on a hot day after demonstrations from a hostile public—might they entrust me to an inferior executioner, someone badly practised? Or might even the best man’s sword slip? Everyone makes a few mistakes in a lifetime, but what is a mistake for a craftsman who in annoyance and pride promises himself, “Better next time”, can mean agony for the particular victim who happens to catch the mistake. Yes, as I bared my neck ready I would be shaking with fear, panic of butchery as well as of the unknown. And if I shook I’d be a bad mark …

I am terrified. Oh, if only he gives me another chance, if only he asks me again before the moment. ..

But you know, with luck, your immediate reflex would be to say “No”. Better to suffer a little physical pain . ..

Every minute, every jogging moment, every second, O God, Oh Cousin, every sharp second is bringing it nearer.

We are still riding through the Golds and the shouting crowd but the roar is only the roar in my ears. It’s all broken up into sharp stabs of colour and each a second of the time— the only Time allotted to me. How hot the sun is. How hard these cruel hands round mine, the rippling of this against my breasts, which I am beginning in my panic to feel physically chafed, ceaselessly …