I sought out Dejah Thoris in the throng of departing chariots, but she turned her shoulder to me, and I could see the red blood mount to her cheek. With the foolish inconsistency of love I held my peace when I might have pled ignorance of the nature of my offense, or at least the gravity of it, and so have effected, at worst, a half conciliation.
I sought out Dejah Thoris in the throng of departing chariots.
My duty dictated that I must see that she was comfortable, and so I glanced into her chariot and rearranged her silks and furs. In doing so I noted with horror that she was heavily chained by one ankle to the side of the vehicle.
“What does this mean?” I cried, turning to Sola.
“Sarkoja thought it best,” she answered, her face betokening her disapproval of the procedure.
Examining the manacles I saw that they fastened with a massive spring lock.
“Where is the key, Sola? Let me have it.”
“Sarkoja wears it, John Carter,” she answered.