The slave girl laughed gaily.  “It is so plain to all that he worships you,” she replied.

“It is not plain to me,” said Tara of Helium.  “He is the friend of my brother, Carthoris, and so he is here much; but not to see me.  It is his friendship for Carthoris that brings him thus often to the palace of my father.”

“But Carthoris is hunting in the north with Talu, Jeddak of Okar,” Uthia reminded her.

“My bath, Uthia!” cried Tara of Helium.  “That tongue of yours will bring you to some misadventure yet.”

“The bath is ready, Tara of Helium,” the girl responded, her eyes still twinkling with merriment, for she well knew that in the heart of her mistress was no anger that could displace the love of the princess for her slave.  Preceding the daughter of The Warlord she opened the door of an adjoining room where lay the bath—­a gleaming pool of scented water in a marble basin.  Golden stanchions supported a chain of gold encircling it and leading down into the water on either side of marble steps.  A glass dome let in the sun-light, which flooded the interior, glancing from the polished white of the marble walls and the procession of bathers and fishes, which, in conventional design, were inlaid with gold in a broad band that circled the room.

Tara of Helium removed the scarf from about her and handed it to the slave.  Slowly she descended the steps to the water, the temperature of which she tested with a symmetrical foot, undeformed by tight shoes and high heels—­a lovely foot, as God intended that feet should be and seldom are.  Finding the water to her liking, the girl swam leisurely to and fro about the pool.  With the silken ease of the seal she swam, now at the surface, now below, her smooth muscles rolling softly beneath her clear skin—­a wordless song of health and happiness and grace.  Presently she emerged and gave herself into the hands of the slave girl, who rubbed the body of her mistress with a sweet smelling semi-liquid substance contained in a golden urn, until the glowing skin was covered with a foamy lather, then a quick plunge into the pool, a drying with soft towels, and the bath was over.  Typical of the life of the princess was the simple elegance of her bath—­no retinue of useless slaves, no pomp, no idle waste of precious moments.  In another half hour her hair was dried and built into the strange, but becoming, coiffure of her station; her leathern trappings, encrusted with gold and jewels, had been adjusted to her figure and she was ready to mingle with the guests that had been bidden to the midday function at the palace of The Warlord.

As she left her apartments to make her way to the gardens where the guests were congregating, two warriors, the insignia of the House of the Prince of Helium upon their harness, followed a few paces behind her, grim reminders that the assassin’s blade may never be ignored upon Barsoom, where, in a measure, it counterbalances the great natural span of human life, which is estimated at not less than a thousand years.