At the edge of the lake
lay a fleet of strong canoes, hollowed from the trunks of trees,
their bows and sterns carved in the semblance of grotesque beasts
or birds and vividly colored by some master in that primitive school
of art, which fortunately is not without its devotees today.
Into the stern of one of these canoes the warriors tossed their
captive at a sign from Mo-sar, who came and stood beside her as
the warriors were finding their places in the canoes and selecting
their paddles.
"Come, Beautiful One," he said, "let us be friends and you shall
not be harmed. You will find Mo-sar a kind master if you do his
bidding," and thinking to make a good impression on her he removed
the gag from her mouth and the thongs from her wrists, knowing well
that she could not escape surrounded as she was by his warriors, and
presently, when they were out on the lake, she would be as safely
imprisoned as though he held her behind bars.
And so the fleet moved off to the accompaniment of the gentle
splashing of a hundred paddles, to follow the windings of the rivers
and lakes through which the waters of the Valley of Jad-ben-Otho
empty into the great morass to the south. The warriors, resting
upon one knee, faced the bow and in the last canoe Mo-sar tiring
of his fruitless attempts to win responses from his sullen captive,
squatted in the bottom of the canoe with his back toward her and
resting his head upon the gunwale sought sleep.
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