TARZAN: 8 Novels in One Volume. Edgar Rice Burroughs

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СКАЧАТЬ times had Tarzan seen Mbonga’s black raiding parties return from the northward with prisoners, and always were the same scenes enacted about that grim stake, beneath the flaring light of many fires.

      He knew, too, that they seldom lost much time before consummating the fiendish purpose of their captures. He doubted that he would arrive in time to do more than avenge.

      On he sped. Night had fallen and he traveled high along the upper terrace where the gorgeous tropic moon lighted the dizzy pathway through the gently undulating branches of the tree tops.

      Presently he caught the reflection of a distant blaze. It lay to the right of his path. It must be the light from the camp fire the two men had built before they were attacked—Tarzan knew nothing of the presence of the sailors.

      So sure was Tarzan of his jungle knowledge that he did not turn from his course, but passed the glare at a distance of a half mile. It was the camp fire of the Frenchmen.

      In a few minutes more Tarzan swung into the trees above Mbonga’s village. Ah, he was not quite too late! Or, was he? He could not tell. The figure at the stake was very still, yet the black warriors were but pricking it.

      Tarzan knew their customs. The death blow had not been struck. He could tell almost to a minute how far the dance had gone.

      In another instant Mbonga’s knife would sever one of the victim’s ears—that would mark the beginning of the end, for very shortly after only a writhing mass of mutilated flesh would remain.

      There would still be life in it, but death then would be the only charity it craved.

      The stake stood forty feet from the nearest tree. Tarzan coiled his rope. Then there rose suddenly above the fiendish cries of the dancing demons the awful challenge of the ape-man.

      The dancers halted as though turned to stone.

      The rope sped with singing whir high above the heads of the blacks. It was quite invisible in the flaring lights of the camp fires.

      D’Arnot opened his eyes. A huge black, standing directly before him, lunged backward as though felled by an invisible hand.

      Struggling and shrieking, his body, rolling from side to side, moved quickly toward the shadows beneath the trees.

      The blacks, their eyes protruding in horror, watched spellbound.

      Once beneath the trees, the body rose straight into the air, and as it disappeared into the foliage above, the terrified negroes, screaming with fright, broke into a mad race for the village gate.

      D’Arnot was left alone.

      He was a brave man, but he had felt the short hairs bristle upon the nape of his neck when that uncanny cry rose upon the air.

      As the writhing body of the black soared, as though by unearthly power, into the dense foliage of the forest, D’Arnot felt an icy shiver run along his spine, as though death had risen from a dark grave and laid a cold and clammy finger on his flesh.

      As D’Arnot watched the spot where the body had entered the tree he heard the sounds of movement there.

      The branches swayed as though under the weight of a man’s body—there was a crash and the black came sprawling to earth again,—to lie very quietly where he had fallen.

      Immediately after him came a white body, but this one alighted erect.

      D’Arnot saw a clean-limbed young giant emerge from the shadows into the firelight and come quickly toward him.

      What could it mean? Who could it be? Some new creature of torture and destruction, doubtless.

      D’Arnot waited. His eyes never left the face of the advancing man. Nor did the other’s frank, clear eyes waver beneath D’Arnot’s fixed gaze.

      D’Arnot was reassured, but still without much hope, though he felt that that face could not mask a cruel heart.

      Without a word Tarzan of the Apes cut the bonds which held the Frenchman. Weak from suffering and loss of blood, he would have fallen but for the strong arm that caught him.

      He felt himself lifted from the ground. There was a sensation as of flying, and then he lost consciousness.

      The Search Party

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      When dawn broke upon the little camp of Frenchmen in the heart of the jungle it found a sad and disheartened group.

      As soon as it was light enough to see their surroundings Lieutenant Charpentier sent men in groups of three in several directions to locate the trail, and in ten minutes it was found and the expedition was hurrying back toward the beach.

      It was slow work, for they bore the bodies of six dead men, two more having succumbed during the night, and several of those who were wounded required support to move even very slowly.

      Charpentier had decided to return to camp for reinforcements, and then make an attempt to track down the natives and rescue D’Arnot.

      It was late in the afternoon when the exhausted men reached the clearing by the beach, but for two of them the return brought so great a happiness that all their suffering and heartbreaking grief was forgotten on the instant.

      As the little party emerged from the jungle the first person that Professor Porter and Cecil Clayton saw was Jane, standing by the cabin door.

      With a little cry of joy and relief she ran forward to greet them, throwing her arms about her father’s neck and bursting into tears for the first time since they had been cast upon this hideous and adventurous shore.

      Professor Porter strove manfully to suppress his own emotions, but the strain upon his nerves and weakened vitality were too much for him, and at length, burying his old face in the girl’s shoulder, he sobbed quietly like a tired child.

      Jane led him toward the cabin, and the Frenchmen turned toward the beach from which several of their fellows were advancing to meet them.

      Clayton, wishing to leave father and daughter alone, joined the sailors and remained talking with the officers until their boat pulled away toward the cruiser whither Lieutenant Charpentier was bound to report the unhappy outcome of his adventure.

      Then Clayton turned back slowly toward the cabin. His heart was filled with happiness. The woman he loved was safe.

      He wondered by what manner of miracle she had been spared. To see her alive seemed almost unbelievable.

      As he approached the cabin he saw Jane coming out. When she saw him she hurried forward to meet him.

      “Jane!” he cried, “God has been good to us, indeed. Tell me how you escaped—what form Providence took to save you for—us.”

      He had never before called her by her given name. Forty-eight hours before it would have suffused Jane with a soft glow of pleasure to have heard that name from Clayton’s lips—now it frightened her.

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