"You are going to kill my Nessa? My lovely doe; my pet from childhood? You must let me see her once again, bid her farewell—"
"Now, Woman," snapped Grensu crossly, "there is no time for that!"
"I beg it of you—" Meg drew a deep breath, hating the word that must defile her lips, "—my Master!"
"Well, if you must, then." Grensu looked pleased. It was a small price to pay for willing compliance. His face still bore the nail-marks of that screaming harridan he had captured in Lanta, and she had been a much less tempting morsel than this Woman. "Well, if you must—"
He turned aside, led Meg to the small grassy patch in which Nessa, untethered, was wont to graze. With a cry of gladness Meg threw her arms about the doe's neck. She sobbed openly, startling even the well-trained Nessa with the fervor of her caresses. And purposely she took a long time; so long that Grensu's impatience rose.
"That will do now, Woman. Let us go!"
"Not yet! Not yet!" pleaded Meg. "Later—"
"Now!" insisted Grensu. He stepped forward to disengage Meg's arms. For the barest fraction of a second his both hands were free and weaponless.
And in that split second Meg moved. "About!" she cried to Nessa. The doe wheeled, throwing Grensu off balance. As he tottered, vain ball of yellow fat, Meg's left arm found his throat, choked him into crimson breathlessness. Her free hand whipped the golden sword from his scabbard; then, as he fell limply to the ground, she sprang to Nessa's back.