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 plead ignorance of the nature of my offense,
or at least the gravity of it, and so have effected, at worst, a
half conciliation.
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.
I turned without further word and sought out Tars Tarkas, to whom I
vehemently objected to the unnecessary humiliations and cruelties,
as they seemed to my lover's eyes, that were being heaped upon Dejah
Thoris.
"John Carter," he answered, "if ever you and Dejah Thoris escape the
Tharks it will be upon this journey.
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