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Flinging the paga bottle aside, a swirl of the liquid flying out of it, I whirled and saw, some fifty feet away, between two wagons, the dark figure of the hooded man, he of the Clan of Torturers, who had been following me. - (Nomads of Gor, Chapter 12, Sentence #505)

Moreover, not every man wants to own an untrained barbarian slave, for such, even if given to them, must be fed—and, this spring, as I could tell from walking about the camp, there was no shortage of girls, freshly collared and branded perhaps, untrained perhaps, but yet, and most importantly, Gorean, which—most significantly—Elizabeth Cardwell was not, and in my opinion could never be. For no reason that I am quite sure of I unwisely purchased another bottle of paga, perhaps for company in my lonely walk. I was only about a quarter of the way through the bottle and was passing the side of a wagon when I saw a swift flicker of a shadow suddenly leap on the lacquered boards and by instinct I threw my head to one side as a quiva flashed past and buried itself three inches deep in the timber side of the wagon. Flinging the paga bottle aside, a swirl of the liquid flying out of it, I whirled and saw, some fifty feet away, between two wagons, the dark figure of the hooded man, he of the Clan of Torturers, who had been following me. He turned and ran, and I, drawing my sword, ran stumbling after him but in less than a moment or two I found my pursuit cut short by a string of tied kaiila being returned after having been released to hunt on the plains. By the time I could manage to avoid their buffeting bodies and crawl under the rope that joined them, my assailant was gone. All I received for my trouble were the angry shouts of the man leading the kaiila string. - (Nomads of Gor, Chapter 12)