KORRA was the name of a man who tilled the soil. When he had saved some money, he went to town to buy a slave.

The dealer showed him several slaves, but Korra was not satisfied.

“I suppose you want me to drag them all out here,” the dealer grumbled. It was noon, and the slaves were all asleep.

“I can always go elsewhere,” Korra said simply.

“Well, well.” The dealer pulled the chains, and the slaves filed out sleepily. Korra looked at them all, examining each one very carefully.

“Feel this one, he’s a fine husky fellow,” said the dealer, and pushed one of the slaves forward. “What do you think of him? Hasn’t he a powerful chest? Strike it and see. And look here at his wrists; the tendons are like the strings of a violin. Open your mouth!”

The dealer thrust a finger in the slave’s mouth and turned him toward the light. “Now you’ll see some teeth,” he boasted. He drew the back of a knife across the slave’s teeth. “Look! Those teeth are like steel. They can bite a nail in two.”

Korra bethought himself yet awhile. He ran his hand over the slave appraisingly, pressing the smooth muscles with the tips of his fingers to see if they were firm. Finally he made up his mind to buy him, paid the price with a scowl, had the slave unmanacled, and took him home.

Before many days had passed, the slave fell sick and began to pine away. Now that he was no longer in the market, but had settled down permanently, he began to long for the forests whence he had come. It was an excellent sign; Korra knew the symptoms. One day he sat down beside the slave, who was lying flat on his back with no interest in life, and began to talk thoughtfully to him.

“You shall get back to your forests, never fear. That I promise you, and you can rely on my promises. You are still young, youknow. … If you will till my fields for me, willingly and industriously, for five years, I will give you your freedom, even though I have paid for you. Five years. Is it a bargain?”

And the slave worked. He took hold like a demon. It was a joy for Korra to sit in his doorway and watch those muscles knot and quiver under the brown skin, and Korra did this for many hours a day, for there was nothing he would rather do. He began to realize that the body is a beautiful thing and a delight to the eye.

Five years, the slave figured—as many solstices as he had fingers. The sun had to turn ten times. Every evening he watched the sun go down, and he kept track of the number of times with markers of stones and knolls. When the sun had turned the first time, he counted on the thumb of his right hand. After the passage of another solstice—and it seemed an eternity— the index finger was free. These two fingers he loved above the others which still served to mark his bondage.

Thus telling the days and marking the passage of time became the religion of the slave, his inner wealth, his spiritual treasure, which none could take from him or dispute with him.

As the time passed, his calculations expanded, became broader and deeper. The years drove by as great boundless abstractions which he could not grasp; but with every new sunset glow the slave recreated his hope and reconsecrated his faith. Time, which was evanescent in the present, appeared interminable, once it was in the past; and the future seemed infinitely distant.

In such wise the slave’s spirit was deepened. As his longing brought infinity into time, so his world became infinite, and his thoughts boundless. Every evening the slave stared thoughtfully into the distant west, and each sunset brought more and more depth into his soul.

When, finally, the five years had ebbed away— it is so easy to say the words—the slave came to his master and asked for his freedom. He wanted to go to his home in the forests. “You have been a faithful worker,” Korra admitted meditatively. “Tell me, where is your home? Is it in the west? I have often watched you staring in that direction.”

Yes, his home was in the west.

“It is far away then,” said Korra.—The slave nodded—far away.—“And you have no money, have you?”

The slave was silent, dismayed. No, that was right, he had no money.

“Look you, you can get nowhere without money. If you work for me for three more years—no, let it be two—I will give you enough money for your travels.”

The slave bowed his head, and went into harness again. He worked well, but no longer did he keep track of the passing days as formerly. On the contrary, he gave way to day-dreaming, and Korra heard him wail and babble in his sleep. After a time he fell sick again.

Then Korra sat down beside him and talked to him long and earnestly. His speech sounded prudent, full of wisdom, as if grounded in honest experience.

“I am an old man,” he said. “In my youth, I, too, longed for the west; the great forests beckoned me. But I never had money enough for the journey. I shall never go there now—never until my spirit goes there when I die. You are young and able, and you work hard, but are you any stronger or abler than I was in my youth? Think about all this, and hearken to the advice of an old man. And see to it that you get well again.”

But the slave mended slowly, and when he took hold again, it was not with the old enthusiasm. He gave way easily now, his ambition was gone, and he liked to lie down and sleep between jobs. Then one day Korra whipped him. It did him good, and he wept.

So the two years slipped by.

Then Korra really gave the slave his freedom. He went forth into the west; but months later he came back in a miserable plight. He had not been able to find his forests.

“Do you see?” said Korra. “Didn’t I warn you? But no one shall say that I am not good to you. Try again, and this time go eastward. It might be that your forests lie in that direction.”

Once more the slave set forth, this time with his face toward the rising sun, and finally, after long wanderings, he came to his own forests. But he knew them not. Worn out and defeated, he turned his face to the west, came back to his master, and told him that though he had found woods, great woods and small, they were not his own forests.

“Hmm!” Korra coughed.

“Stay with me,” he then said warmly. “While I am alive you shall never lack for a home on this earth. And when I have been gathered to my fathers, my son will see that you are taken care of.” So the slave stayed.

Korra aged, but his slave was still in his prime. Korra fed him well that he might live long, kept him clean that he might be in good health, and at reasonable intervals whipped him so that he should be meek and respectful. Nor did he stint with rest; every Sunday the slave was free to sit on top of a knoll and stare out into the west.

Korra’s farm yielded in abundance. He purchased woods and cleared them and put them under the plow that his slave might have work, and the slave felled trees with a will. Korra was wealthy now, and one day he brought home a female slave.

The years passed, and in Korra’s house there grew up six stalwart slave boys. Like their father, they worked diligently. Only when one is working does the time pass, their father told them. And when the time has passed, weary we are borne into the everlasting forests. Every rest day he took his sons with him up on the knoll where they could watch the setting sun, and he taught them longing.

Korra was old and decrepit. He had, indeed, always been old, but now there was nothing of him left but age. His son had never been strong, but they had nothing to fear from any one, for each of the slaves could fell a man with one blow of a club. They were splendid fellows; the flesh was tight on their iron muscles, and their teeth were like a tiger’s. But the times were safe enough. The slaves swung their axes and felled trees.