A play telling the story of former Gorey agency Fernando Sanders

“Yes,” she replied, “but he does not know me for what I am, nor does he know who betray­ed my mother to Tal Hajus. I alo­ne know my father’s name, and only I and Tal Hajus and Sar­ko­ja know that it was she who car­ri­ed the tale that brought death and tor­tu­re upon her he loved.”

We sat silent for a few moments, she wrap­ped in the gloo­my thoughts of her ter­ri­ble past, and I in pity for the poor crea­tures whom the heart­less, sen­seless cus­toms of their race had doo­med to lov­eless lives of cru­el­ty and of hate. Pre­sent­ly she spoke.

“John Car­ter, if ever a real man wal­ked the cold, dead bosom of Bar­so­om you are one. I know that I can trust you, and becau­se the know­ledge may some­day help you or him or Dejah Tho­ris or mys­elf, I am going to tell you the name of my father, nor place any restric­tions or con­di­ti­ons upon your tongue. When the time comes, speak the truth if it seems best to you. I trust you becau­se I know that you are not cur­sed with the ter­ri­ble trait of abso­lu­te and uns­wer­ving truth­ful­ness, that you could lie like one of your own Vir­gi­nia gen­tle­men if a lie would save others from sor­row or suf­fe­ring. My father’s name is Tars Tarkas.”

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