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* * * * We marched through the city, the streets behind us filled like gray rivers with the rebels, each man with his own weapon, yet the sound of those rivers converging on the palace of the Tatrix was anything but gray. - (Outlaw of Gor, Chapter 24, Sentence #128)

"I no longer wear the golden mask," she said. And Kron looked on the beautiful girl who stood before him with such grace and dignity, with no trace of pride or cruelty, or fear. "My Tatrix," he whispered. * * * * We marched through the city, the streets behind us filled like gray rivers with the rebels, each man with his own weapon, yet the sound of those rivers converging on the palace of the Tatrix was anything but gray. It was the sound of the plowing song, as slow and irresistible as the breaking of ice in frozen rivers, a simple, melodic paean to the soil, celebrating the first breaking of the ground. At the head of that splendid, ragged procession five marched; Kron, chief of the rebels; Andreas, a poet; his woman, Linna of Tharna, unveiled; I, a warrior of a city devastated and cursed of the Priest-Kings; and a girl with golden hair, a girl who wore no mask, who had known both the whip and love, fearless and magnificent Lara, she who was true Tatrix of Tharna. It was clear to the defenders of the palace, which formed the major bastion of Dorna's challenged regime, that the issue would be decided that day and by the sword. - (Outlaw of Gor)