THE TARZAN COLLECTION (8 Books in One Edition). Edgar Rice Burroughs

was but one thing to do, make camp where they were until daylight. Lieutenant Charpentier ordered a clearing made and a circular abatis of underbrush constructed about the camp.

      This work was not completed until long after dark, the men building a huge fire in the center of the clearing to give them light to work by.

      When all was safe as possible against attack of wild beasts and savage men, Lieutenant Charpentier placed sentries about the little camp and the tired and hungry men threw themselves upon the ground to sleep.

      The groans of the wounded, mingled with the roaring and growling of the great beasts which the noise and firelight had attracted, kept sleep, except in its most fitful form, from the tired eyes. It was a sad and hungry party that lay through the long night praying for dawn.

      The blacks who had seized D’Arnot had not waited to participate in the fight which followed, but instead had dragged their prisoner a little way through the jungle and then struck the trail further on beyond the scene of the fighting in which their fellows were engaged.

      They hurried him along, the sounds of battle growing fainter and fainter as they drew away from the contestants until there suddenly broke upon D’Arnot’s vision a good-sized clearing at one end of which stood a thatched and palisaded village.

      It was now dusk, but the watchers at the gate saw the approaching trio and distinguished one as a prisoner ere they reached the portals.

      A cry went up within the palisade. A great throng of women and children rushed out to meet the party.

      And then began for the French officer the most terrifying experience which man can encounter upon earth—the reception of a white prisoner into a village of African cannibals.

      To add to the fiendishness of their cruel savagery was the poignant memory of still crueler barbarities practiced upon them and theirs by the white officers of that arch hypocrite, Leopold II of Belgium, because of whose atrocities they had fled the Congo Free State—a pitiful remnant of what once had been a mighty tribe.

      They fell upon D’Arnot tooth and nail, beating him with sticks and stones and tearing at him with claw-like hands. Every vestige of clothing was torn from him, and the merciless blows fell upon his bare and quivering flesh. But not once did the Frenchman cry out in pain. He breathed a silent prayer that he be quickly delivered from his torture.

      But the death he prayed for was not to be so easily had. Soon the warriors beat the women away from their prisoner. He was to be saved for nobler sport than this, and the first wave of their passion having subsided they contented themselves with crying out taunts and insults and spitting upon him.

      Presently they reached the center of the village. There D’Arnot was bound securely to the great post from which no live man had ever been released.

      A number of the women scattered to their several huts to fetch pots and water, while others built a row of fires on which portions of the feast were to be boiled while the balance would be slowly dried in strips for future use, as they expected the other warriors to return with many prisoners. The festivities were delayed awaiting the return of the warriors who had remained to engage in the skirmish with the white men, so that it was quite late when all were in the village, and the dance of death commenced to circle around the doomed officer.

      Half fainting from pain and exhaustion, D’Arnot watched from beneath half-closed lids what seemed but the vagary of delirium, or some horrid nightmare from which he must soon awake.

      The bestial faces, daubed with color—the huge mouths and flabby hanging lips—the yellow teeth, sharp filed—the rolling, demon eyes—the shining naked bodies—the cruel spears. Surely no such creatures really existed upon earth—he must indeed be dreaming.

      The savage, whirling bodies circled nearer. Now a spear sprang forth and touched his arm. The sharp pain and the feel of hot, trickling blood assured him of the awful reality of his hopeless position.

      Another spear and then another touched him. He closed his eyes and held his teeth firm set—he would not cry out.

      He was a soldier of France, and he would teach these beasts how an officer and a gentleman died.

      Tarzan of the Apes needed no interpreter to translate the story of those distant shots. With Jane Porter’s kisses still warm upon his lips he was swinging with incredible rapidity through the forest trees straight toward the village of Mbonga.

      He was not interested in the location of the encounter, for he judged that that would soon be over. Those who were killed he could not aid, those who escaped would not need his assistance.

      It was to those who had neither been killed or escaped that he hastened. And he knew that he would find them by the great post in the center of Mbonga village.

      Many 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