"Your stature, your manner, the terrible ferocity of your swordsmanship," said the boy, "are as my mother has described them to me a thousand times--but even with such evidence I could scarce credit the truth of what seemed so improbable to me, however much I desired it to be true.
Do you know what thing it was that convinced me more than all the others?"
"What, my boy?" I asked.
"Your first words to me--they were of my mother. None else but the man who loved her as she has told me my father did would have thought first of her."
"For long years, my son, I can scarce recall a moment that the radiant vision of your mother's face has not been ever before me. Tell me of her."
"Those who have known her longest say that she has not changed, unless it be to grow more beautiful--were that possible. Only, when she thinks I am not about to see her, her face grows very sad, and, oh, so wistful. She thinks ever of you, my father, and all Helium mourns with her and for her. Her grandfather's people love her. They loved you also, and fairly worship your memory as the saviour of Barsoom.