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caves than Fu-Torof the missing hand.
    They had patched him up with the best of theirtending. But there was no one in the cave. He cravedwater with a thirst which was now another pain, andfinally forced his aching and bruised body to obeyhim, crawling through the light of the night lamp tothe stone trough. There was little left, and when he tried to dip out a bowlful his hand shook so that hegot hardly any. But even as he had fought on when there was no hope of victory, he persisted.
    Furtig did not return to his ledge. Now that he wasnot so single-minded in his quest for water, he couldplainly hear the sounds of the feasting below. TheChoosing must be over, the winners with the mateswho had selected them. Fas-Tan—he put her out ofhis mind. After all she had been only a dream hecould never hope to possess.
    His clawless belt was the greater loss, and he couldhave wailed over that like a youngling who hadstrayed too far from his mother and feared whatmight crouch in the dark. That he could stay on in the caves now was impossible.
    But to go to Gammage armed and confident wasone matter. To slink off as a reject from the Trials,with his weapon lost as spoils of victory— In somethings his pride was deep. Yet—to Gammage he mustgo. It was his right, as it had been his brother's, tochoose to leave. And one could always claim a secondTrial—though at present that was the last thing he wanted.
    However, Furtig had no intention of leaving beforehe proclaimed his choice. Pride held him to that.Some losers might be poor spirited enough to slinkaway in the dark of night, giving no formal word totheir caves—but not Furtig! He crawled back to theledge, knowing that he must also wait until he was fitfor the trail again.
    So he lay, aching and smarting, listening to thefeasting, wondering if his sisters had chosen to mate with victorious westerners or within the caves. And sohe fell asleep.
    It was midday when he awoke, for the sun wasshining in a bright bar well into the cave mouth.
    Theledges of the elders were empty, but he heard noisesin the parts within. As he turned his head one of theyounger females almost touched noses with him, shehad been sitting so close, her eyes regarding him unwinkingly.
    "Furtig." She spoke his name softly, putting out ahand to touch a patch of the now dried leaf plaster onhis shoulder. "Does it hurt you much?"
    He was aware of aches, but none so intense asearlier.
    "Not too much, clan sister.""Mighty fighter, in the cave of Grimmage—"
    He wrinkled a lip in a wry grimace. "Not so, youngling. Did I not lose to the warrior of the westerners?San-Lo is a mighty fighter, not Furtig."
    She shook her head. Like him she was furred withrich gray, but hers was longer, silkier. He had thoughtFas-Tan was rare because of her coloring, but thisyoungling, Eu-La, would also be a beauty when herchoose-time came.
    "San-Lo was chosen by Fas-Tan." She told himwhat he could easily have guessed. "Sister Naya hastaken Mur of Folock's cave. But Sister Yngar—she took the black warrior of the westerners—"
    Eu-La's ears flattened and she hissed.
    Furtig guessed. "The one I battled? He is a strong one."
    "He hurt you." Eu-La shook her head. "It was wrong for Sister Yngar to choose one who hurt herbrother. She is no longer of the cave." Once more she hissed.
    "But of course she is not, sister. When one chooses, one is of the clan of one's mate. That is the way of life."
    "It is a bad way—this fighting way." She chewed one claw tip reflectively between words. "You are better than San-Lo."
    Furtig grunted. "I would not like to try to prove that, sister. In fact it is a not-truth."
    She hissed. "He is strong of claw, yes. But in his head—does he think well? No, Fas-Tan is a fool. Sheshould pick a mate who thinks rather than one who fights strongly."
    Furtig stared at her. Why, she was only a youngling, more than a season away from her own time ofchoice. But what she said now was not a youngling kind of thing.
    "Why do you