The sun was well up when Yasmina awoke.  She did not start and stare blankly, wondering where she was.  She awoke with full knowledge of all that had occurred.  Her supple limbs were stiff from her long ride, and her firm flesh still seemed to feel the contact of the muscular arm that had borne her so far.

She was lying on a sheepskin covering a pallet of leaves on a hard-beaten dirt floor.  A folded sheepskin coat was under her head, and she was wrapped in a ragged cloak.  She was in a large room, the walls of which were crudely but strongly built of uncut rocks, plastered with sun-baked mud.  Heavy beams supported a roof of the same kind, in which showed a trap-door up to which led a ladder.  There were no windows in the thick walls, only loopholes.  There was one door, a sturdy bronze affair that must have been looted from some Vendhyan border tower.  Opposite it was a wide opening in the wall, with no door, but several strong wooden bars in place.  Beyond them Yasmina saw a magnificent black stallion munching a pile of dried grass.  The building was fort, dwelling place, and stable in one.  At the other end of the room a girl in the vest and baggy trousers of a hillwoman squatted beside a small fire, cooking strips of meat on an iron grid laid over blocks of stone.  There was a sooty cleft in the wall a few feet from the floor, and some of the smoke found its way out there.  The rest floated in blue wisps about the room.

The hill girl glanced at Yasmina over her shoulder, displaying a bold, handsome face, and then continued her cooking.  Voices boomed outside; then the door was kicked open, and Conan strode in.  He looked more enormous than ever with the morning sunlight behind him, and Yasmina noted some details that had escaped her the night before.  His garments were clean and not ragged.  The broad Bakhariot girdle that supported his knife in its ornamented scabbard would have matched the robs of a prince, and there was a glint of fine Turanian mail under his shirt.

"Your captive is awake, Conan," said the Wazuli girl, and he grunted, strode up to the fire, and swept the stips of mutton off into a stone dish.

The squatting girl laughed up at him, with some spicy jest, and he grinned wolfishly, and hooking a toe under her haunches, tumbled her sprawling onto the floor.  She seemed to derive considerable amusement from this bit of rough horseplay, but Conan paid no more heed to her.  Producing a great hunk of bread from somewhere, with a copper jug of wine, he carried the lot to Yasmina, who had risen from her pallet and was regarding him doubtfully.

"Rough fare for a Devi, girl, but our best," he grunted.  "It will fill your belly, at least."

He set the platter on the floor, and she was suddenly aware of a ravenous hunger.  Making no comment, she seated herself cross-legged on the floor, and taking the dish in her lap, she began to eat, using her fingers, which were all she had in the way of table utensils.  After all, adaptability is one of the tests of true aristocracy.  Conan stood looking down at her, his thumbs hooked in his girdle.  He never sat cross-legged, after the Eastern fashion.

"Where am I?" she asked abruptly.

"In the hut of Yar Afzal, the chief of the Khurum Wazulis," he answered.  "Afghulistan lies a good many miles farther on to the west.  We'll hide here awhile.  The Kshatriyas are beating up the hills for you - several of their squads have been cut up by the tribes already."

"What are you going to do?" she asked.