Never have I been much of a ladies' man, being more concerned
with fighting and kindred arts which have ever seemed to me more
befitting a man than mooning over a scented glove four sizes too
small for him, or kissing a dead flower that has begun to smell
like a cabbage. So I was quite at a loss as to what to do or say.
A thousand times rather face the wild hordes of the dead sea bottoms
than meet the eyes of this beautiful young girl and tell her the
thing that I must tell her.
But there was nothing else to be done, and so I did it. Very
clumsily too, I fear.
Gently I unclasped her hands from about my neck, and still holding
them in mine I told her the story of my love for Dejah Thoris.
That of all the women of two worlds that I had known and admired
during my long life she alone had I loved.
The tale did not seem to please her. Like a tigress she sprang,
panting, to her feet. Her beautiful face was distorted in an
expression of horrible malevolence. Her eyes fairly blazed into
mine.
"Dog," she hissed. "Dog of a blasphemer! Think you that Phaidor,
daughter of Matai Shang, supplicates? She commands. What to her
is your puny outer world passion for the vile creature you chose
in your other life?
"Phaidor has glorified you with her love, and you have spurned her.
Ten thousand unthinkably atrocious deaths could not atone for the
affront that you have put upon me.
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