"You aren't one of us," she said.
"No. I came from beyond the mountains." He could not tell whether she believed him or not. "Who, or what, are the Korins?"
"The lords of Korith," she answered, and began to tear strips from the length of white linen cloth she wore twisted about her waist. "There will be time to talk later. We still have far to go. Here, this will stop the bleeding."
In silence they bound each other's wounds and started off again. If Trevor had not been so unutterably weary, and the way so hard, he would have been angry with the girl. And yet there was nothing really to be angry about except that he sensed she was somehow suspicious of him.
Many times they had to stop and rest. Once he asked her, "Why were they—the Korins—hunting you?"
"I was running away. Why were they hunting you?"
"Damned if I know. Accident, perhaps. I happened to be where their hawks were flying."
The girl wore a chain of iron links around her neck, a solid chain with no clasp, too small to be pulled over the head. From it hung a round tag with a word stamped on it. Trevor took the tag in his hand.
"Galt," he read. "Is that your name?"
"My name is Jen. Galt is the Korin I belong to. He led the hunt." She gave Trevor a look of fierce and challenging pride and said, as though she were revealing a secret earldom, "I am a slave."