A Princess of Mars

When consciousness returned, and, as I soon learned, I was down but a

moment, I sprang quickly to my feet searching for my sword, and there I

found it, buried to the hilt in the green breast of Zad, who lay stone

dead upon the ochre moss of the ancient sea bottom. As I regained my

full senses I found his weapon piercing my left breast, but only

through the flesh and muscles which cover my ribs, entering near the

center of my chest and coming out below the shoulder. As I had lunged

I had turned so that his sword merely passed beneath the muscles,

inflicting a painful but not dangerous wound.

Removing the blade from my body I also regained my own, and turning my

back upon his ugly carcass, I moved, sick, sore, and disgusted, toward

the chariots which bore my retinue and my belongings. A murmur of

Martian applause greeted me, but I cared not for it.

Bleeding and weak I reached my women, who, accustomed to such

happenings, dressed my wounds, applying the wonderful healing and

remedial agents which make only the most instantaneous of death blows

fatal. Give a Martian woman a chance and death must take a back seat.

They soon had me patched up so that, except for weakness from loss of

blood and a little soreness around the wound, I suffered no great

distress from this thrust which, under earthly treatment, undoubtedly

would have put me flat on my back for days.

As soon as they were through with me I hastened to the chariot of Dejah

Thoris, where I found my poor Sola with her chest swathed in bandages,

but apparently little the worse for her encounter with Sarkoja, whose

dagger it seemed had struck the edge of one of Sola's metal breast

ornaments and, thus deflected, had inflicted but a slight flesh wound.

As I approached I found Dejah Thoris lying prone upon her silks and

furs, her lithe form wracked with sobs. She did not notice my

presence, nor did she hear me speaking with Sola, who was standing a

short distance from the vehicle.

"Is she injured?" I asked of Sola, indicating Dejah Thoris by an

inclination of my head.

"No," she answered, "she thinks that you are dead."

"And that her grandmother's cat may now have no one to polish its

teeth?" I queried, smiling.

"I think you wrong her, John Carter," said Sola. "I do not understand

either her ways or yours, but I am sure the granddaughter of ten

thousand jeddaks would never grieve like this over any who held but the

highest claim upon her affections. They are a proud race, but they are

just, as are all Barsoomians, and you must have hurt or wronged her

grievously that she will not admit your existence living, though she

mourns you dead.