The Beasts of Tarzan

would reach as well to Jane Clayton.
“You think your wife safe in England,” said Rokoff. “Poor fool! She is even now in the hands of one not even of decent birth, and far from the safety of London and the protection of her friends. I had not meant to tell you this until I could bring to you upon Jungle Island proof of her fate.
“Now that you are about to die the most unthinkably horrid death that it is given a white man to die⁠—let this word of the plight of your wife add to the torments that you must suffer before the last savage spear-thrust releases you from your torture.”
The dance had commenced now, and the yells of the circling warriors drowned Rokoff’s further attempts to distress his victim.
The leaping savages, the flickering firelight playing upon their painted bodies, circled about the victim at the stake.
To Tarzan’s memory came a similar scene, when he had rescued D’Arnot from a like predicament at the last moment before the final spear-thrust should have ended his sufferings. Who was there now to rescue him? In all the world there was none able to save him from the torture and the death.
The thought that these human fiends would devour him when the dance was done caused him not a single qualm of horror or disgust. It did not add to his sufferings as it would have to those of an ordinary white man, for all his life Tarzan had seen the beasts of the jungle devour the flesh of their kills.
Had he not himself battled for the grisly forearm of a great ape at that long-gone Dum-Dum, when he had slain the fierce Tublat and won his niche in the respect of the Apes of Kerchak?
The dancers were leaping more closely to him now. The spears were commencing to find his body in the first torturing pricks that prefaced the more serious thrusts.
It would not be long now. The ape-man longed for the last savage lunge that would end his misery.
And then, far out in the mazes of the weird jungle, rose a shrill scream.
For an instant the dancers paused, and in the silence of the interval there rose from the lips of the fast-bound white man an answering shriek, more fearsome and more terrible than that of the jungle-beast that had roused it.
For several minutes the blacks hesitated; then, at the urging of Rokoff and their chief, they leaped in to finish the dance and the victim; but ere ever another spear touched the brown hide a tawny streak of green-eyed hate and ferocity bounded from the door of the hut in which Tarzan had been imprisoned, and Sheeta, the panther, stood snarling beside his master.
For an instant the blacks and the whites stood transfixed with terror. Their eyes were riveted upon the bared fangs of the jungle cat.
Only Tarzan of the Apes saw what else there was emerging from the dark interior of the hut.


IX
Chivalry or Villainy

From her cabin port upon the Kincaid, Jane Clayton had seen her husband rowed to the verdure-clad shore of Jungle Island, and then the ship once more proceeded upon its way.
For several days she saw no one other than Sven Anderssen, the Kincaid’s taciturn and repellent cook. She asked him the name of the shore upon which her husband had been set.
“Ay tank it blow purty soon purty hard,” replied the Swede, and that was all that she could get out of him.
She had come to the conclusion that he spoke no other English, and so she ceased to importune him for information; but never did she forget to greet him pleasantly or to thank him for the hideous, nauseating meals he brought her.
Three days from the spot where Tarzan had been marooned the Kincaid came to anchor in the mouth of a great river, and presently Rokoff came to Jane Clayton’s cabin.
“We have arrived, my dear,” he said, with a sickening leer. “I have come to offer you safety, liberty, and ease. My heart has been softened toward you in your suffering, and I would make amends as best I may.
“Your husband was a brute⁠—you know that best who found him naked in his native jungle, roaming wild with the savage beasts that were his fellows. Now I am a gentleman, not only born of noble blood, but raised gently as befits a man of quality.
“To you, dear Jane, I offer the love of a cultured man and association with one of culture and refinement, which you must have sorely missed in your relations with the poor ape that through your girlish infatuation you married so thoughtlessly. I love you, Jane. You have but to say the word and no further sorrows shall afflict you⁠—even your baby shall be returned to you unharmed.”
Outside the door Sven Anderssen paused with the noonday meal he had been carrying to Lady Greystoke. Upon the end of his long, stringy neck his little head was cocked to one side, his close-set eyes were half closed, his ears, so expressive was his whole attitude of stealthy eavesdropping, seemed truly to be cocked forward⁠—even his long, yellow, straggly moustache appeared to assume a sly droop.
As Rokoff closed his appeal, awaiting the reply he invited, the look of surprise upon Jane Clayton’s face turned to one of disgust. She fairly shuddered in the fellow’s face.
“I would not have been surprised,  M. Rokoff,” she said, “had you attempted to force me to submit to your evil desires, but that you should be so fatuous as to believe that I, wife of John Clayton, would come to you willingly, even to save my life, I should never have imagined. I have known you for a scoundrel,  M. Rokoff; but until now I had not taken you for a fool.”
Rokoff’s eyes narrowed, and the red of mortification flushed out the pallor of his face. He took a step toward the girl, threateningly.
“We shall see