From "Manual of Muad'Dib" by the Princess Irulan

That which makes a man superhuman is terrifying.
As he focused on this thought, Feyd-Rautha became conscious of the eruption of noise from the stands and galleries around him. They were cheering with utter abandon.
Feyd-Rautha turned, looking up at them.
All were cheering except the Baron, who sat with hand to chin in deep contemplation—and the Count and his lady, both of whom were staring down at him, their faces masked by smiles.
Count Fenring turned to his lady, said: "Ah-h-h-um-m-m, a resourceful um-m-m-m young man. Eh, mm-m-m-ah, my dear?"
"His ah-h-h synaptic responses are very swift," she said.
The Baron looked at her, at the Count, returned his attention to the arena, thinking: If someone could get that close to one of mine! Rage began to replace his fear. I'll have the slavemaster dead over a slow fire this night . . . and if this Count and his lady had a hand in it . . .
The conversation in the Baron's box was remote movement to Feyd-Rautha, the voices drowned in the foot-stamping chant that came now from all around:
"Head! Head! Head! Head!"
The Baron scowled, seeing the way Feyd-Rautha turned to him. Languidly, controlling his rage with difficulty, the Baron waved his hand toward the young man standing in the arena beside the sprawled body of the slave. Give the boy a head. He earned it by exposing the slavemaster .
Feyd-Rautha saw the signal of agreement, thought: They think they honor me. Let them see what I think!
He saw his handlers approaching with a saw-knife to do the honors, waved them back, repeated the gesture as they hesitated. They think they honor me with just a head! he thought. He bent and crossed the gladiator's hands around the protruding knife handle, then removed the knife and placed it in the limp hands.
It was done in an instant, and he straightened, beckoned his handlers. "Bury this slave intact with his knife in his hands," he said. "The man earned it."
In the golden box, Count Fenring leaned close to the Baron, said: "A grand gesture, that—true bravura. Your nephew has style as well as courage."
"He insults the crowd by refusing the head," the Baron muttered.
"Not at all," Lady Fenring said. She turned, looking up at the tiers around them.
And the Baron noted the line of her neck—a truly lovely flowing of muscles—like a young boy's.
"They like what your nephew did," she said.
As the import of Feyd-Rautha's gesture penetrated to the most distant seats, as the people saw the handlers carrying off the dead gladiator intact, the Baron watched them and realized she had interpreted the reaction correctly. The people were going wild, beating on each other, screaming and stamping.
The Baron spoke wearily. "I shall have to order a fete. You cannot send people home like this, their energies unspent. They must see that I share their elation." He gave a hand signal to his guard, and a servant above them dipped the Harkonnen orange pennant over the box—once, twice, three times—signal for a fete.
Feyd-Rautha crossed the arena to stand beneath the golden box, his weapons sheathed, arms hanging at his sides. Above the undiminished frenzy of the crowd, he called: "A fete, Uncle?"
The noise began to subside as people saw the conversation and waited.
"In your honor, Feyd!" the Baron called down. And again, he caused the pennant to be dipped in signal.
Across the arena, the pru-barriers had been dropped and young men were leaping down into the arena, racing toward Feyd-Rautha.
"You ordered the pru-shields dropped. Baron?" the Count asked.
"No one will harm the lad," the Baron said. "He's a hero."
The first of the charging mass reached Feyd-Rautha, lifted him on their shoulders, began parading around the arena.
"He could walk unarmed and unshielded through the poorest quarters of Harko tonight," the Baron said. "They'd give him the last of their food and drink just for his company."
The Baron pushed himself from his chair, settled his weight into his suspensors. "You will forgive me, please. There are matters that require my immediate attention. The guard will see you to the keep."
The Count arose, bowed. "Certainly, Baron. We're looking forward to the fete. I've ah-h-h-mm-m-m never seen a Harkonnen fete."
"Yes," the Baron said. "The fete." He turned, was enveloped by guards as he stepped into the private exit from the box.
A guard captain bowed to Count Fenring. "Your orders, my Lord?"
"We will ah-h-h wait for the worst mm-m-m crush to um-m-m pass," the Count said.
"Yes, m'Lord." The man bowed himself back three paces.
Count Fenring faced his lady, spoke again in their personal humming-code tongue: "You saw it, of course?"
In the same humming tongue, she said: "The lad knew the gladiator wouldn't be drugged. There was a moment of fear, yes, but no surprise."
"It was planned," he said. "The entire performance."
"Without a doubt."
"It stinks of Hawat."
"Indeed," she said.
"I demanded earlier that the Baron eliminate Hawat."
"That was an error, my dear."
"I see that now."
"The Harkonnens may have a new Baron ere long."
"If that's Hawat's plan."
"That will bear examination, true," she said.
"The young one will be more amenable to control."
"For us . . . after tonight," she said.
"You don't anticipate difficulty seducing him, my little brood-mother?"
"No, my love. You saw how he looked at me."
"Yes, and I can see now why we must have that bloodline."
"Indeed, and it's obvious we must have a hold on him. I'll plant deep in his deepest self the necessary prana-bindu phrases to bend him."
"We'll leave as soon as possible—as soon as you're sure," he said.
She shuddered. "By all means. I should not want to bear a child in this terrible place."
"The things we do in the name of humanity," he said.
"Yours is the easy part," she said.
"There are some ancient prejudices I overcome," he said. "They're quite primordial, you know."
"My poor dear," she said, and patted his cheek. "You know this is the only way to be sure of saving that bloodline."
He spoke in a dry voice: "I quite understand what we do."
"We won't fail," she said.
"Guilt starts as a feeling of failure," he reminded.
"There'll be no guilt," she said. "Hypno-ligation of that Feyd-Rautha's psyche and his child in my womb—then we go."
"That uncle," he said. "Have you ever seen such distortion?"
"He's pretty fierce," she said, "but the nephew could well grow to be worse."
"Thanks to that uncle. You know, when you think what this lad could've been with some other upbringing—with the Atreides code to guide him, for example."
"It's sad, "she said.
"Would that we could've saved both the Atreides youth and this one. From what I heard of that young Paul—a most admirable lad, good union of breeding and training." He shook his head. "But we shouldn't waste sorrow over the aristocracy of misfortune."
"There's a Bene Gesserit saying," she said.
"You have sayings for everything!" he protested.
"You'll like this one," she said. "It goes: 'Do not count a human dead until you've seen his body. And even then you can make a mistake.' "
Muad'Dib tells us in "A Time of Reflection" that his first collisions with Arrakeen necessities were the true beginnings of his education. He learned then how to pole the sand for its weather, learned the language of the wind's needles stinging his skin, learned how the nose can buzz with sand-itch and how to gather his body's precious moisture around him to guard it and preserve it. As his eyes assumed the blue of the Ibad, he learned the Chakobsa way.
—Stilgar's preface to "Muad'Dib, the Man" by the Princess Irulan
Stilgar's troop returning to the sietch with its two strays from the desert climbed out of the basin in the waning light of the first moon. The robed figures hurried with the smell of home in their nostrils. Dawn's gray line behind them was brightest at the notch in their horizon-calendar that marked the middle of autumn, the month of Caprock.
Wind-raked dead leaves strewed the cliffbase where the sietch children had been gathering them, but the sounds of the troop's passage (except for occasional blunderings by Paul and his mother) could not be distinguished from the natural sounds of the night.
Paul wiped sweat-caked dust from his forehead, felt a tug at his arm, heard Chani's voice hissing. "Do as I told you: bring the fold of your hood down over your forehead! Leave only the eyes exposed. You waste moisture."
A whispered command behind them demanded silence: "The desert hears you!"
A bird chirruped from the rocks high above them.
The troop stopped, and Paul sensed abrupt tension.
There came a faint thumping from the rocks, a sound no louder than mice jumping in the sand.
Again, the bird chirruped.
A stir passed through the troop's ranks. And again, the mouse-thumping pecked its way across the sand.
Once more, the bird chirruped.
The troop resumed its climb up into a crack in the rocks, but there was a stillness of breath about the Fremen now that filled Paul with caution, and he noted covert glances toward Chani, the way she seemed to withdraw, pulling in upon herself.
There was rock underfoot now, a faint gray swishing of robes around them, and Paul sensed a relaxing of discipline, but still that quiet-of-the-person about Chani and the others. He followed a shadow shape—up steps, a turn, more steps, into a tunnel, past two moisture-sealed doors and into a globelighted narrow passage with yellow rock walls and ceiling.
All around him, Paul saw the Fremen throwing back their hoods, removing nose plugs, breathing deeply. Someone sighed. Paul looked for Chani, found that she had left his side. He was hemmed in by a press of robed bodies. Someone jostled him, said, "Excuse me, Usul. What a crush! It's always this way."
On his left, the narrow bearded face of the one called Farok turned toward Paul. The stained eyepits and blue darkness of eyes appeared even darker under the yellow globes. "Throw off your hood, Usul," Farok said. "You're home." And he helped Paul, releasing the hood catch, elbowing a space around them.
Paul slipped out his nose plugs, swung the mouth baffle aside. The odor of the place assailed him: unwashed bodies, distillate esters of reclaimed wastes, everywhere the sour effluvia of humanity with, over it all, a turbulence of spice and spicelike harmonics.
"Why are we waiting, Farok?" Paul asked.
"For the Reverend Mother, I think. You heard the message—poor Chani."