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course—they would be going into the desert. What better place to rape a woman than the desert—where her screams could not be heard. And there seemed to be several men riding with them. How many rapes would she have to endure before they killed her?
    They rode for hours, but Christina lost track of time. Her hair was tangled over her face, and her stomach ached from the position she was in. She couldn't understand why they were taking her so far into the desert. Then they stopped.
    It's going to happen now, she thought frantically as she was lowered to the ground. When she felt no hands on her she tried to run, but she forgot the sack was tied about her knees and fell forward onto the sand.
    This was all the humiliation she could stand. She began to whimper. She would have been crying hysterically if she hadn't had the gag in her mouth. Someone picked her up and put her on her feet again. Her toes sank slowly into the cold desert sand.
    Christina felt the rope being untied at her knees, and she lunged forward again. But she was pulled back and caught to a man's broad chest. He held her imprisoned in his powerful arms for what seemed like an eternity, then chuckled deeply. He lifted her up onto the horse, then mounted behind her. It seemed the man was at least going to let her ride upright with some dignity.
    But why were they riding again? Why hadn't they done anything to her? Did they think to make her suffer more by keeping her in suspense? Then it came to her. Maybe they weren't going to kill her after all. Maybe they would sell her as a slave after raping her. Of course. She would probably bring a handsome sum at a slave auction. She would make an unusual attraction, with her long blond hair and slim white body. That was probably it, she thought miserably. They will use me and then sell me for a profit. That would be worse than dying.
    Christina always said she would be a slave to no man in marriage. But now she would be a real slave—to a master who could do anything he wanted with her. She would have no say in the matter. She prayed they would kill her instead, for she couldn't bear to be a slave.
    The hours dragged on slowly until Christina began to see light through the rough material of the sack and knew it must be dawn. She thought of John and of his misery when he found her gone. She doubted he would ever be able to find her, for they had been riding all night.
    Where were they taking her? Christina could feel the sweat pouring down her sides and legs as the day grew hotter. She would curse this bastard to the devil if only he could understand her. She was exhausted.
    Finally they stopped, but Christina didn't care anymore —she didn't want to think anymore. She was lowered to the ground again, her legs crumpling under her. She wasn't giving up, but she knew it was useless to run. The sun blinded her for a minute as someone dragged the sack up over her head. When she could see again, a short native was standing in front of her. He handed her a robe and a square piece of cloth with a cord, which was for the Bedouin headdress.
    "Kufiyah," he said, pointing to the cloth. He untied the gag from her mouth and walked away.
    There were three of them. Two medium-sized young men, and one huge man who was watering the horses. The young man who gave her the robe and kufiyah came up again, smiling sheepishly, and handed her some bread and a skin of water. She was very hungry, for she had eaten little the night before.
    When Christina finished eating, the big man came toward her and took the waterskin from her, tossing it to one of the other men. His kufiyah covered the lower half of his face, so she couldn't see what he looked like.
    He was a big man for an Arab. She thought that Arabs were generally small, but this man dwarfed the other two.
    He helped her on with the robe and pulled back her hair, which was hanging to her hips. At least he was helping her dress instead of taking her clothes off. He arranged the kufiyah