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

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.

      “Mr. Clayton,” she said quietly, extending her hand, “first let me thank you for your chivalrous loyalty to my dear father. He has told me how noble and self-sacrificing you have been. How can we repay you!”

      Clayton noticed that she did not return his familiar salutation, but he felt no misgivings on that score. She had been through so much. This was no time to force his love upon her, he quickly realized.

      “I am already repaid,” he said. “Just to see you and Professor Porter both safe, well, and together again. I do not think that I could much longer have endured the pathos of his quiet and uncomplaining grief.

      “It was the saddest experience of my life, Miss Porter; and then, added to it, there was my own grief—the greatest I have ever known. But his was so hopeless—his was pitiful. It taught me that no love, not even that of a man for his wife may be so deep and terrible and self-sacrificing as the love of a father for his daughter.”

      The girl bowed her head. There was a question she wanted to ask, but it seemed almost sacrilegious in the face of the love of these two men and the terrible suffering they had endured while she sat laughing and happy beside a godlike creature of the forest, eating delicious fruits and looking with eyes of love into answering eyes.

      But love is a strange master, and human nature is still stranger, so she asked her question.

      “Where is the forest man who went to rescue you? Why did he not return?”

      “I do not understand,” said Clayton. “Whom do you mean?”

      “He who has saved each of us—who saved me from the gorilla.”

      “Oh,” cried Clayton, in surprise. “It was he who rescued you? You have not told me anything of your adventure, you know.”

      “But the wood man,” she urged. “Have you not seen him? When we heard the shots in the jungle, very faint and far away, he left me. We had just reached the clearing, and he hurried off in the direction of the fighting. I know he went to aid you.”

      Her tone was almost pleading—her manner tense with suppressed emotion. Clayton could not but notice it, and he wondered, vaguely, why she was so deeply moved—so anxious to know the whereabouts of this strange creature.

      Yet a feeling of apprehension of some impending sorrow haunted him, and in his breast, unknown to himself, was implanted the first germ of jealousy and suspicion of the ape-man, to whom he owed his life.

      “We did not see him,” he replied quietly. “He did not join us.” And then after a moment of thoughtful pause: “Possibly he joined his own tribe—the men who attacked us.” He did not know why he had said it, for he did not believe it.

      The girl looked at him wide eyed for a moment.

      “No!” she exclaimed vehemently, much too vehemently he thought. “It could not be. They were savages.”

      Clayton looked puzzled.

      “He is a strange, half-savage creature of the jungle, Miss Porter. We know nothing of him. He neither speaks nor understands any European tongue—and his ornaments and weapons are those of the West Coast savages.”

      Clayton was speaking rapidly.

      “There are no other human beings than savages within hundreds of miles, Miss Porter. He must belong to the tribes which attacked us, or to some other equally savage—he may even be a cannibal.”

      Jane blanched.

      “I will not believe it,” she half whispered. “It is not true. You shall see,” she said, addressing Clayton, “that he will come back and that he will prove that you are wrong. You do not know him as I do. I tell you that he is a gentleman.”

      Clayton was a generous and chivalrous man, but something in the girl’s breathless defense of the forest man stirred him to unreasoning jealousy, so that for the instant he forgot all that they owed to this wild demi-god, and he answered her with a half sneer upon his lip.

      “Possibly you are right, Miss Porter,” he said, “but I do not think that any of us need worry about our carrion-eating acquaintance. The chances are that he is some half-demented castaway who will forget us more quickly,