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realized she was in a strange place and hesitated for a moment. Then she held her arms out and cried, “Mummy!”
    The woman sitting at the grindstone was a young woman whose only child had died six months ago. Now, this baby staggered toward her crying the very word she had been longing to hear. She lifted Kinza into her lap and began kissing and soothing her.
    Kinza knew this was not her mother and started to struggle free, but although these were the wrong arms, they felt safe and strong, and the woman’s hands were gentle as they stroked her curls. At last she relaxed and asked for a drink. The woman fetched her a bowl of buttermilk. She drank every last drop, then curled up like a kitten in the woman’s lap and went to sleep.
    It was evening when Hamid woke up, feeling rested and comfortable. He suddenly realized where he was and jumped up with a little cry of alarm. Where was Kinza? He saw her tracks in the trampled cornfield and crept to the edge of the patch. What he saw gave him a real surprise.
    Less than fifty yards away, he saw Kinza eating cherries in front of a hut, while a young woman laughed and tried to untangle her curls. Aroundthem sat the whole village, who had come out to stare at this strange child who had somehow arrived among them.
    Hamid felt ashamed. He had fallen asleep, they had lost a whole precious day’s traveling, and, worst of all, Kinza had escaped and could well be in an enemy camp. He must rescue her quickly, for these people would certainly soon come to hear of the child missing from Thursday Village, the name of Hamid’s village.
    So, once again, when the sun went down and moonlight flooded the village, Hamid left the shelter of the cornfield and crept over to the doorway of the hut. Kinza had been put on a little mat and covered with a goatskin. Hamid scooped her up in his arms, whispering her name. She gave a little sigh and half woke but, knowing she was safely back with her brother, she clung to him tightly and fell into a deep, peaceful sleep. She knew she was back in the right place.
    Five minutes later they were bumping up the hillside, Hamid’s heart thumping with fear. But no one had heard them—the rescue had been perfect.
    Hamid paused and looked up to the mountain towering above him, and back to the valley and the river that led home. He knew which path he had to take and headed toward the mountaintop, which he reached just before dawn. Hamid felt he was standing alone on top of the world, gazing at range upon range of rocky peaks.
    He knew he had to avoid Tuesday Market, a Spanish settlement where there were many soldierswho might be on the lookout for them. His stepfather could well have alerted the police by now. Hamid knew he must make his way straight down the mountain to the river in the valley two thousand feet below them.
    He tied Kinza on his back again and set out, almost colliding with two men on horseback, whom he recognized as coming from his own village.
    Dazzled by the sun, the men stared at him for a moment, then one leaped lightly from his horse and made a grab for Hamid.
    “It’s Si Mohamed’s boy!” he cried. “The one who was missing from Thursday Village the day before yesterday.”
    Hamid ducked and bolted down the mountainside. His sudden movement startled the horse, which reared in the air. The man gave an angry shout and the horse plunged forward. By the time the animal was properly under control, Hamid was far away, leaping through the scrub, with Kinza bumping behind him. Not even noticing the thorns and roots and his cut, bleeding feet, he went crashing on, not daring to look behind, always expecting a heavy hand to land on his shoulder and pull Kinza away from him.
    The merchant, still clinging to the bridle, stood watching him. He had done his best, but he was not going to chase someone else’s brat all over the scrub bushes and spoil his new shoes. It was none of his business, and he wanted to be in good time for market. He shrugged