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discipline. For it, she might be   suspended naked, on a forty foot rope from one of the high bridges, to be lashed by tarnsmen, sweeping past her in flight.
                I had watched her go.
                I had not attempted to stop her.
                And when Telima had fled my house, when I had determined to seek talena in the northern forests, I had, too, let her go. I smiled. A true Gorean, I knew, would have followed her, and brought her back in bracelets and collar.
                I thought then of Vella, once Elizabeth Cardwell, whom I had encountered in the city of Lydius, at the mouth of the Laurius River, below the borders of the forest. I had once loved her, and had wanted to return her safe to earth. But she had not honored my will, but, that night, had saddled my tarn, great Ubar of the Skies , and fled the   Sardar. When the bird had returned, I, in fury, had driven it away.   Then I encountered the girl in a paga tavern in Lydius; she had fallen slave. Her flight had been a brave act. I admired her, but it was an act not without its consequences. She had gambled; she had lost. In an alcove, after I had used her, she had begged me to buy her, to free her. It was a slave's act, like that of Talena. I left her slave in the paga tavern. Before I had left, I had informed her master, Sarpedon of Lydius, that, as he did not know, she was an exquisitely trained pleasure slave, and a most stimulating performer of slave dances. I had not returned that night to see her dance in the sand to please her customers. I had matters of business to attend to. She had not honored my will. She was only a female. She had cost me a tarn.
                She had told me that I had become harder, more Gorean. I wondered if it were true or not. A true Gorean, I speculated, would not have left her in the paga tavern. A true Gorean, I speculated, would have purchased her, and brought her back, to put her with his other women, a delicious new slave fopr his house. I smiled to myself. The girl, Elizabeth Cardwell, once a secretary in New York, was one of the most delicious weches I had ever seen in slave silk, Her thigh bore the brand of the four bosk horns.
                No. I had not treated her as would have a true Gorean. I had not brought her back in my collar, to serve my pleasures.
                And, too, I knew that I had, in my fevered delirium attendant on my wounds, when I lay in the stern castle of the Tesephone, cried out her name.
                This had shamed me, and was weakness. Though I was half motionless, though I could not close the fingers of my left hand, I resolved that I must burn from myself the vestiges of weakness. There   was still much in me that was of Earth, much shallowness, much compromise, much weakness. I was not yet in my will truly Gorean.
                I wondered how to live, " Do not ask how to live, but, instead, proceed to do so."
                I wondered, too, on the nature of   my affliction. I had had the finest wound physicians on Gor brought to attend me, to inquire into its nature. They could tell me little. Yet I had learned there was no damage in the brain, nor directly to the spinal column. The men of medicine were puzzled. The wounds were deep, and severe, and would   doubtless, from time to time, cause me pain, but the paralysis, given the nature of the injury, seemed to them unaccountable.
                Then one more physician, unsummoned, came to my door.
                "Admit him, " I had said.
                "He is a renegade from Turia, a lost man." had said Thurnock,
                "Admit him," I had said.
                "It is Iskander," whispered Thurnock.
                I knew well the name of Iskander of Turia. I smiled. He remembered well the city that had exiled him, keeping still its name as part of his own. It had been