“Aside from seeing you, which is my principal reason for being here, and satisfying myself that I can transport inanimate things from Mars to Earth, and therefore animate things if I so desire, I have no purpose.  Earth is not for me.  My every interest is upon Barsoom—­my wife, my children, my work; all are there.  I will spend a quiet evening with you and then back to the world I love even better than I love life.”

As he spoke he dropped into the chair upon the opposite side of the chess table.

“You spoke of children,” I said.  “Have you more than Carthoris?”

“A daughter,” he replied, “only a little younger than Carthoris, and, barring one, the fairest thing that ever breathed the thin air of dying Mars.  Only Dejah Thoris, her mother, could be more beautiful than Tara of Helium.”

For a moment he fingered the chessmen idly.  “We have a game on Mars similar to chess,” he said, “very similar.  And there is a race there that plays it grimly with men and naked swords.  We call the game jetan.  It is played on a board like yours, except that there are a hundred squares and we use twenty pieces on each side.  I never see it played without thinking of Tara of Helium and what befell her among the chessmen of Barsoom.  Would you like to hear her story?”

I said that I would and so he told it to me, and now I shall try to re-tell it for you as nearly in the words of The Warlord of Mars as I can recall them, but in the third person.  If there be inconsistencies and errors, let the blame fall not upon John Carter, but rather upon my faulty memory, where it belongs.  It is a strange tale and utterly Barsoomian.

CHAPTER I

TARA IN A TANTRUM

Tara of Helium rose from the pile of silks and soft furs upon which she had been reclining, stretched her lithe body languidly, and crossed toward the center of the room, where, above a large table, a bronze disc depended from the low ceiling.  Her carriage was that of health and physical perfection—­the effortless harmony of faultless coordination.  A scarf of silken gossamer crossing over one shoulder was wrapped about her body; her black hair was piled high upon her head.  With a wooden stick she tapped upon the bronze disc, lightly, and presently the summons was answered by a slave girl, who entered, smiling, to be greeted similarly by her mistress.

“Are my father’s guests arriving?” asked the princess.

“Yes, Tara of Helium, they come,” replied the slave.  “I have seen Kantos Kan, Overlord of the Navy, and Prince Soran of Ptarth, and Djor Kantos, son of Kantos Kan,” she shot a roguish glance at her mistress as she mentioned Djor Kantos’ name, “and—­oh, there were others, many have come.”

“The bath, then, Uthia,” said her mistress.  “And why, Uthia,” she added, “do you look thus and smile when you mention the name of Djor Kantos?”