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The slave, braceleted at the post, jerked and jerked at the snug steel on her wrists. - (Kur of Gor, Chapter 77, Sentence #283)

It could have split apart the palings of the stockade, could have shattered the gate of the compound into a dozen pieces. "You cannot escape," said Flavion, grinning, lurching after Cabot. "How long can you run, little thing? Do you call that little stick you carry an ax? You cannot even reach me with it! You are human! I am Kur! Close with me! Close with me! Hold still! Stand! Fight!" Cabot circled, as he could, to the left, looking for an opening, but now Flavion held the ax more closely, was more guarded in his movements, in his strokes, even poked at Cabot, trying to force him backward, to fall, or to pin him against the palings. The slave, braceleted at the post, jerked and jerked at the snug steel on her wrists. The links of the chain joining the bracelets scraped again and again at the iron ring, and pulled futilely against it, but her frenzied efforts were not in the least availing. The steel, the links, the ring, the post, such things, were not designed to concede the least possibility of escape to their selected prisoners. They are designed to hold them, and do hold them, with perfection. - (Kur of Gor)