The priestess said haughtily, "He is not a Man, he is one of the Wild Ones. Of course I was going to kill him. That is the Law."
"It is a poor Law," grunted Daiv. He was bending over the Wild One now, cleaning his wounds with handfuls of clean, dried grass. "If the Women of your tribe build traps like these for Men, I'm not sure I want to meet them. Aagh! False tops, and sharpened sticks beneath!"
Meg the Priestess disappeared, and in her place stood Meg the wife, a look of bafflement in her eyes.
"But, Daiv—" Faintly. "You killed one of the Wild Ones yourself. The first time we met."
"That," said Daiv curtly, "was because he tried to linber you. I wanted you for myself. There—he's coming around now. How do you feel, Man? Are you all right?"
The Wild One's eyes were uncomprehending as they saw the golden-limbed priestess and this strange, hairless Man before him. His bearded lips parted in a strangled fragment of speech.
"I am ... all right." Then, to Daiv alone, "You ... saved my life!"
Daiv nodded. Thoughts crawled slowly behind the Wild One's eyes; he reached a decision. From his filthy loin cloth he drew a chipped and rusted blade; this he offered to Daiv. With the other hand he smoothed flat the verminous tangle of hair above his heart.
"My life is yours, stranger," he said humbly.