Thuvia, Maid of Mars, by Edgar Rice Burroughs
CHAPTER I
CARTHORIS AND THUVIA
Upon a massive bench of polished ersite beneath the gorgeous blooms
of a giant pimalia a woman sat. Her shapely, sandalled foot tapped
impatiently upon the jewel-strewn walk that wound beneath the
stately sorapus trees across the scarlet sward of the royal gardens
of Thuvan Dihn, Jeddak of Ptarth, as a dark-haired, red-skinned
warrior bent low toward her, whispering heated words close to her
ear.
“Ah, Thuvia of Ptarth,” he cried, “you are cold even before the
fiery blasts of my consuming love! No harder than your heart, nor
colder is the hard, cold ersite of this thrice happy bench which
supports your divine and fadeless form! Tell me, O Thuvia of
Ptarth, that I may still hope–that though you do not love me now,
yet some day, some day, my princess, I–”
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