CHAPTER XXI. The black boy, whom Malban had left awaiting him in the clearing with instructions to remain until he returned, sat crouched at the foot of a tree for an hour when he was suddenly startled by the coughing grunt of a lion behind him. With celerity born of the fear of death, the boy clamored into the branches of the tree, and a moment later the king of beasts entered the clearing and approached the carcass of an antelope which until now the boy had not seen. Until daylight the beast fed, while the black clung sleepless to his perch, wondering what had become of his master and the two ponies. He had been with Malban for a year, and so was fairly conversant with the character of the white. His knowledge presently led him to believe that he had been purposely abandoned. Like the balance of Malban's followers, this boy hated his master cordially, fear being the only bond that held him to the white man, his present uncomfortable predicament but added fuel to the fires of his hatred. As the sun rose, the lion withdrew into the jungle, and the black descended from his tree and started upon his long journey back to camp. In his primitive brain revolved various fiendish plans for a revenge that he would not have the courage to put into effect when the test came, and he stood face to face with one of the dominant race. A mile from the clearing he came upon the spore of two ponies crossing his path at right angles. A cunning look entered the black's eyes. He laughed up roriously and slapped his thighs. Negroes are tireless gossipers, which of course is but a roundabout way of saying that they are human. Malban's boys had been no exception to the rule, and as many of them had been with him at various times during the past ten years there was little about his acts and life in the African wilds that was not known directly or by hearsay to them all. And so, knowing his master and many of his past deeds, knowing too a great deal about the plans of Malban and Baines that had been overheard by himself or other servants, and knowing well from the gossip of the headmen that half of Malban's party lay in camp by the great river far to the west, it was not difficult for the boy to put two and two together and arrive at four as the sum.  Again the boy bared his rows of big white teeth and laughed aloud. Then he resumed his northward way, travelling at a dogged trot that ate up the miles with marvellous rapidity. In the Swedes' camp the honourable Morrison had spent an almost sleepless night of nervous apprehension and doubts and fears. Toward morning he had slept utterly exhausted. It was the headman who awoke him shortly after sunrise to remind him that they must at once take up their northward journey. Baines hung back. He wanted to wait for Hanson and Miriam. The headman urged upon him the danger that lay in loitering. The fellow knew his master's plan sufficiently well to understand that he had done something to arouse the ire of the big buana and that it would fare ill with them all if they were overtaken in big buana's country. At the suggestion Baines took alarm. What if the big buana, as the headman called him, had surprised Hanson in his nefarious work? Would he not guess the truth and possibly be already on the march to overtake and punish him? Baines had heard much of his host summary method of dealing out punishment to malefactors great and small who transgressed the laws or customs of his savage little world which lay beyond the outer ramparts of what men are pleased to call frontiers. In this savage world where there was no law the big buana was law unto himself and all who dwelt about him.  Baines shattered at the recollection of this piece of gossip as he wondered what his host would exact of the man who had attempted to steal his young white ward. The thought brought him to his feet. Yes, he said nervously, we must get away from here at once. Do you know the trail to the north? The headman did and he lost no time in getting the safari upon the march. It was noon when a tired and sweat-covered runner overtook the trudging little column. The man was greeted with shouts of welcome from his fellows, to whom he imparted all he knew and guessed of the actions of their master so that the entire safari was aware of matters before Baines, who marched close to the head of the column, was reached and acquainted with the facts and the imaginings of the black boy whom Malban had deserted in the clearing the night before. When the honourable Morrison had listened to all that the boy had to say and realised that the trader had used him as a tool whereby he himself might get Miriam into his possession, his blood ran hot with rage and he trembled with apprehension for the girl's safety. That another contemplated no worse a deed than he had contemplated in no way palliated the hideousness of the other's offence. At first it did not occur to him that he would have wronged Miriam no less than he believed Hanson contemplated wronging her. Now his rage was more the rage of a man beaten at his own game and robbed of the prize that he had thought already his. "'Do you know where your master has gone?' he asked the black. "'Yes, Buona,' replied the boy, he has gone to the other camp beside the big affee that flows far toward the setting sun. "'Can you take me to him?' demanded Baines. The boy nodded affirmatively. Here he saw a method of revenging himself upon his hated Buona and at the same time of escaping the wrath of the big Buona, whom all were positive would first follow after the northerly safari. "'Can you and I alone reach his camp?' asked the honourable Morrison. "'Yes, Buona,' assured the black. Baines turned toward the headman. He was conversant with Hanson's plans now. He understood why he had wished to move the northern camp as far as possible toward the northern boundary of the big Buona's country. It would give him far more time to make his escape toward the west coast while the big Buona was chasing the northern contingent. Well, he would utilize the man's plans to his own end. He too must keep out of the clutches of his host. "'You may take the man north as fast as possible,' he said to the headman. "'I shall return and attempt to lead the big Buona to the west.' The negro assented with a grunt. He had no desire to follow this strange white man who was afraid at night. He had less to remain at the tender mercies of the big Buona's lusty warriors, between whom and his people there was long-standing blood feud, and he was more than delighted into the bargain for a legitimate excuse for deserting his much-hated swede master. He knew away to the north and his own country that the white men did not know. A short cut across an arid plateau where lay water-holds of which the white hunters and explorers that had passed from time to time the fringe of the dry country had never dreamed. He might even elude the big Buona should he follow them, and with this thought uppermost in his mind he gathered the remnants of Malbin's safari into a semblance of order and moved off toward the north. And toward the southwest the black boy led the honorable Morrison Baines into the jungles. Korak had waited about the camp, watching the honorable Morrison, until the safari had started north, then assured that the young Englishman was going in the wrong direction to meet Miriam. He had abandoned him and returned slowly to the point where he had seen the girl for whom his heart yearned in the arms of another. So great had been his happiness at seeing Miriam alive that for the instant no thought of jealousy had entered his mind.  And with passing of the hours had come subdued reflection in which he had weighed himself against the trimly clad English gentleman and found that he was wanting. What had he to offer her by comparison with that which the other man might offer? What was his mess of pottage to the birthright that the other had preserved? How could he dare go naked and unkempt to that fair thing who had once been his jungle fellow and proposed the thing that had been in his mind when first the realization of his love had swept over him? He shuddered as he thought of the irreparable wrong that his love would have done the innocent child but for the chance that had snatched her from him before it was too late. Doubtless she knew now the horror that had been in his mind. Doubtless she hated and loathed him as he hated and loathed himself when he let his mind dwell upon it. He had lost her. No more surely had she been lost when he thought her dead than she was in reality now that he had seen her living, living in the guise of a refinement that had transfigured and sanctified her. He had loved her before, now he worshipped her. He knew that he might never possess her now, but at least he might see her. From a distance he might look upon her. Perhaps he might serve her, but never must she guess that he had found her or that he lived. He wondered if she ever thought of him, if the happy days that they had spent together never recurred to her mind. It seemed unbelievable that such could be the case, and yet, too, it seemed almost equally unbelievable that this beautiful girl was the same disheveled, half-naked little sprite who skipped nimbly among the branches of the trees as they ran and played in the lazy happy days of the past. It could not be that her memory held more of the past than did her new appearance. It was a sad corack who reigned the jungle near the plains edge, waiting for the coming of his Miriam, the Miriam who never came. But there came another, a tall broad-shoulder man in khaki at the head of a swarthy crew of ebb and warriors. The man's face was set in hard, stern lines, and the marks of sorrow were writ deep about his mouth and eyes, so deep that the set expression of rage upon his features could not obliterate them. Corack saw the man past beneath him where he hid in the great tree that had harbored him before upon the edge of that fateful little clearing. He saw him come, and he set rigid and frozen and suffering above him. He saw him search the ground with his keen eyes, and he only sat there watching with eyes that glazed from the intensity of his gaze. He saw him sign to his men that he had come upon that which he sought, and he saw him pass out of sight toward the north, and still Corack sat like a graven image with a heart that bled in dumb misery. An hour later Corack moved slowly away back into the jungle toward the west. He went listlessly with bent head and stooped shoulders like an old man who bore upon his back the weight of a great sorrow. Baines, following his black guide, battled his way through the dense underbrush, riding stooped low over his horse's neck, or often he dismounted where the low branches swept too close to earth to permit him to remain in the saddle. The black was taking him the shortest way, which was no way at all for a horseman, and after the first day's march the young Englishman was forced to abandon his mount and follow his nimble guide entirely on foot. During the long hours of marching the Honorable Morrison had much time to devote to thought, and as he pictured the probable fate of Miriam at the hands of the Swede his rage against the man became the greater. But presently there came to him a realization of the fact that his own base plans had led the girl into this terrible predicament and that even had she escaped Hanson she would have found but little better deserts awaiting her with him. There came to the realization that Miriam was infinitely more precious to him than he had imagined, for the first time he commenced to compare her with other women of his acquaintance, women of birth and position, and almost to his surprise he discovered that the young Arab girl suffered less than they by the comparison. And then from hating Hanson he came to look upon himself with hate and loathing to see himself and his perfidious act in all their contemptible hideousness. Thus in the crucible of shame amidst the white heat of naked truths the passion that the man had felt for the girl he had considered his social inferior was transmuted into love. And as he staggered on there burned within him beside his newborn love another great passion, the passion of hate urging him on to the consummation of revenge. A creature of ease and luxury he had never been subjected to the hardships and tortures which now were his constant companionship, yet his clothing torn, his flesh scratched and bleeding he urged the black to greater speed, though with every dozen steps he himself fell from exhaustion. It was revenge which kept him going, that and a feeling that in his suffering he was partially expiating the great wrong he had done the girl he loved for hope of saving her from the fate in which he had trapped her had never existed. Too late, too late was the dismal accompaniment of thought to which he marched. Too late, too late to save, but not too late to avenge. That kept him up. Only when it became too dark to see would he permit of a halt. A dozen times in the afternoon he had threatened the black with instant death when the tired guide insisted upon resting. The fellow was terrified. He could not understand the remarkable change that had so suddenly come over the white man who had been afraid in the dark the night before. He would have deserted this terrifying master had he had the opportunity, but Bain's guess that some such thought might be in the other's mind, and so gave the fellow none. He kept close to him by day and slept touching him at night in the rude thorn-boma they constructed as a slight protection against prowling carnivora. That the honourable Morrison could sleep at all in the midst of the savage jungle was sufficient indication that he had changed considerably in the past twenty-four hours and that he could lie close beside a non-too-fragrant black man spoke of possibilities for democracy within him yet all undreamed of. Bain found him stiff and lame and sore, but none the less determined to push on in pursuit of Hanson as rapidly as possible. With his rifle he brought down a buck at a fort in a small stream shortly after they broke camp, breakfastless. Begrudgingly he permitted a halt while they cooked an eight, and then on again through the wilderness of trees and vines and underbrush. And in the meantime Korak wandered slowly westward, coming upon the trail of Tantor the elephant whom he overtook browsing in the deep shade of the jungle. The eight-man, lonely and sorrowing, was glad of the companionship of his huge friend. Affectionately the sinuous trunk encircled him, and he was swung to the mighty back where so often before he had lulled and dreamed the long afternoon away. Far to the north the big buana and his black warriors clung tenaciously to the trail of the fleeing safari that was luring them further and further from the girl they sought to save, while back at the bungalow the woman who had loved Miriam as though she had been her own, waited impatiently and in sorrow for the return of the rescuing party and the girl she was positive, her invincible lord and master would bring back with him. This Librivox recording is in the public domain. Son of Tarzan by Edgar Rice Burroughs Chapter 22 As Miriam struggled with Malban, her hand's pinion to her sides by his brawny grip, hope died within her. She did not utter a sound, for she knew that there was none to come to her assistance, and to the jungle training of her earlier life had taught her the futility of appeals for succour in the savage world of her upbringing. But as she fought to free herself, one hand came in contact with the butt of Malban's revolver where it rested in the holster at his hip. Slowly he was dragging her toward the blankets, and slowly her fingers encircled the coveted prize and drew it from its resting place. Then as Malban stood at the edge of the disordered pile of blankets, Miriam suddenly ceased to draw away from him, and as quickly hurled her weight against him with the result that he was thrown backward, his feet stumbled against the bedding, and he was hurled to his back. Instinctively his hands flew out to save himself, and at the same instant Miriam leveled the revolver at his breast and pulled the trigger. But the hammer fell futilely upon an empty shell, and Malban was again upon his feet clutching at her, for a moment she alluded him and ran toward the entrance to the tent, but at the very doorway his heavy hand fell upon her shoulder and dragged her back, wheeling upon him with the fury of a wounded lioness. Miriam grasped the long revolver by the barrel, swung it high above her head and crashed it down full in Malban's face. With an oath of pain and rage the man staggered backward, releasing his hold upon her, and then sank unconscious to the ground. Without a backward look Miriam turned and fled into the open. Several of the blacks saw her and tried to intercept her flight, but the menace of the empty weapon kept them at a distance, and so she ran beyond the encircling Boma and disappeared into the jungle to the south. Straight into the branches of a tree she went, true to the arboreal instincts of the little mangani she had been, and here she stripped off her riding-skirt, her shoes and her stockings, for she knew that she had before her a journey and a flight which would not brook the burden of these garments. Her riding-breaches and jacket would have to serve as protection from cold and thorns, nor would they hamper her over much, but a skirt and shoes were impossible among the trees. She had not gone far before she commenced to realize how slight were her chances for survival without means of defense or a weapon to bring down meat. Why had she not thought to strip the cartridge belt from Malbin's waist before she had left his tent? With cartridges for the revolver she might hope to bag small game and to protect herself from all but the most ferocious of the enemies that would be set her way back to the beloved hearthstone of Buona and my dear. With the thought came determination to return and obtain the coveted ammunition. She realized that she was taking great chances of recapture, but without means of defense and of obtaining meat she felt that she could never hope to reach safety, and so she turned her face back toward the camp from which she had but just escaped. She thought Malbin dead, so terrific a blow had she dealt him, and she hoped to find an opportunity after dark to enter the camp and search his tent for the cartridge belt. But scarcely had she found a hiding-place in a great tree at the edge of the Boma where she could watch without danger of being discovered when she saw the swede emerge from his tent, wiping blood from his face and hurling a volley of oaths and questions at his terrified followers. Shortly after the entire camp set forth in search of her, and when Merriam was positive that all were gone, she descended from her hiding-place and ran quickly across the clearing to Malbin's tent. A hasty survey of the interior revealed no ammunition, but in one corner was a box in which were packed the swede's personal belongings that he had sent along by his headman to this westerly camp. Merriam seized the receptacle as the possible container of extra ammunition. Quickly she loosed the cords that held the canvas covering about the box, and a moment later had raised the lid and was rummaging through the heterogeneous accumulation of odds and ends within. There were letters and papers and cuttings from old newspapers, and among other things the photograph of a little girl upon the back of which was pasted a cutting from a Paris daily, a cutting that she could not read, yellowed and dimmed by age and handling. But something about the photograph of the little girl which was also reproduced in the newspaper cutting held her attention. Where had she seen that picture before? And then quite suddenly it came to her that this was a picture of herself as she had been years and years before. Where had it been taken? How had it come into the possession of this man? Why had it been reproduced in a newspaper? What was the story that the fated type told of it? Merriam was baffled by the puzzle that her search for ammunition had revealed. She stood gazing at the fated photograph for a time, and then bethought herself of the ammunition for which she had come. Turning again to the box she rummaged to the bottom, and there in a corner she came upon a little box of cartridges. A single glance assured her that they were intended for the weapons she had thrust inside the band of her riding-breaches, and slipping them into her pocket she turned once more for an examination of the baffling likeness of herself that she held in her hand. As she stood thus in vain endeavour to fathom this inexplicable mystery the sound of voices broke upon her ears. Instantly she was all alert. They were coming closer. A second later she recognized the lurid profanity of the Swede. Malben, her persecutor, was returning. Merriam ran quickly to the opening of the tent and looked out. It was too late. She was fairly cornered. The white man and three of his black henchmen were coming straight across the clearing toward the tent. What was she to do? She slipped the photograph into her waist. Quickly she slipped a cartridge into each of the chambers of the revolver. Then she backed toward the end of the tent, keeping the entrance covered by her weapon. The man stopped outside, and Merriam could hear Malben profanely issuing instructions. He was a long time about it, and while he talked in his bellowing brutish voice the girl sought some avenue of escape. Stooping she raised the bottom of the canvas and looked beneath and beyond. There was no one inside upon that side.  Merriam heard him cross the floor, and then she rose and, stooping low, ran to a native hut, directly behind. Once inside this she turned and glanced back. There was no one inside. She had not been seen. And now from Malben's tent she heard a great cursing. The Swede had discovered the rifling of his box. He was shouting to his men, and as she heard them reply Merriam darted from the hut and ran toward the edge of the Boma, furthest from Malben's tent. Overhanging the Boma at this point was a tree that had been too large in the eyes of the rest-loving blacks to cut down. So they had terminated the Boma just short of it. Merriam was thankful for whatever circumstance had resulted in the leaving of that particular tree where it was since it gave her the much-needed avenue of escape which she might not otherwise have had. From her hiding-place she saw Malben again entered the jungle, this time leaving a guard of three of his boys in the camp. He went toward the south, and after he had disappeared Merriam skirted the outside of the enclosure and made her way to the river. Here lay the canoes that had been used in bringing the party from the opposite shore. They were unwieldy things for a lone girl to handle, but there was no other way, and she must cross the river. The landing-place was in full view of the guard at the camp. To risk the crossing under their eyes would have meant undoubted capture. Her only hope lay in waiting until darkness had fallen, unless some fortuitous circumstance should arise before. For an hour she lay watching the guard, one of whom seemed always in a position where he would immediately discover her should she attempt to launch one of the canoes. Presently Malben appeared, coming out of the jungle hot and puffing. He ran immediately to the river where the canoes lay and counted them. It was evident that it had suddenly occurred to him that the girl must cross here if she wished to return to her protectors. The expression of relief on his face when he found that none of the canoes was gone was ample evidence of what was passing in his mind.  Following Malben's instructions they launched all the canoes but one. Malben called to the guards in the camp, and a moment later the entire party had entered the boats and were paddling upstream. Miriam watched them until a bend in the river directly above the camp hid them from her sight. They were gone. She was alone and they had left a canoe in which lay a paddle. She could scarce believe the good fortune that had come to her. To delay now would be suicidal to her hopes. Quickly she ran from her hiding place and dropped to the ground. A dozen yards lay between her and the canoe. Upstream beyond the bend Malben ordered his canoes in to shore. He landed with his head man and crossed the little point slowly in search of a spot where he might watch the canoe he had left at the landing place. He was smiling in anticipation of the almost certain success of his stratagem. Sooner or later the girl would come back and attempt to cross the river in one of their canoes. It might be that the idea would not occur to her for some time. They might have to wait a day or two days, but that she would come if she lived or was not captured by the men he had scouting the jungle for her, Malben was sure. That she would come so soon, however, he had not guessed. And so when he topped the point and came again within sight of the river he saw that which drew an angry oath from his lips. His quarry already was half way across the river. Turning he ran rapidly back to his boats, the head man at his heels. Throwing themselves in, Malben urged his paddlers to their most powerful efforts. The canoe shot out into the stream and down with the current toward the fleeing quarry. She had almost completed the crossing when they came inside of her. At the same instant she saw them and redoubled her efforts to reach the opposite shore before they should overtake her. Two minutes' start of them was all Miriam cared for. Once in the trees she knew that she could out-distance and elude them. Her hopes were high. They could not overtake her now. She had had too good a start of them. Malben, urging his men onward with a stream of hideous ults and blows from his fists, realized that the girl was again slipping from his clutches. The leading canoe in the bow of which he stood was yet a hundred yards behind the fleeing Miriam when she ran the point of her craft beneath the overhanging trees on the shore of safety. Malben screamed to her to halt. He seemed to have gone mad with rage at the realization that he could not overtake her, and then he threw his rifle to his shoulder, aimed carefully at the slim figure scrambling into the trees and fired. Malben was an excellent shot. His misses at so short a distance were practically nonexistent, nor would he have missed this time, but for an accident occurring at the very instant that his finger tightened upon the trigger, an accident to which Miriam owed her life. The providential presence of a waterlogged tree-trunk, one end of which was embedded in the mud of the river-bottom and the other end of which floated just beneath the surface where the prow of Malben's canoe ran upon it as he fired. The slight deviation of the boat's direction was sufficient to throw the muzzle of the rifle out of aim. The bullet whizzed harmlessly by Miriam's head, and an instant later she had disappeared into the foliage of the tree. There was a smile on her lips as she dropped to the ground across a little clearing where once it stood an eighty village surrounded by its fields. The ruined hut still stood in crumbling decay. The ranked vegetation of the jungle overgrew the cultivated ground. Small trees already had sprung up in what had been the village street, but desolation and loneliness hung like a pall above the scene. To Miriam, however, it presented but a place denuded of large trees which she must cross quickly to regain the jungle upon the opposite side before Malben should have landed. The deserted huts were, to her, all the better, because they were deserted. She did not see the keen eyes watching her from a dozen points, from tumbling doorways, from behind tottering granaries. In utter unconsciousness of impending danger, she started up the village street, because it offered the clearest pathway to the jungle. A mile away toward the east, fighting his way through the jungle, along the trail taken by Malben, when he had brought Miriam to his camp, a man in torn khaki, filthy, haggard, unkempt, came to a sudden stop as the report of Malben's rifle resounded faintly through the tangled forest. The black man just ahead of him stopped too. We are almost there, Buona. He said. There was awe and respect in his tone and manner. The white man nodded and motioned his ebb and guide forward once more. It was the honourable Morrison Baines, the fastidious, the exquisite. His face and hands were scratched and smeared with dried blood from the wounds he had come by in thorn and thicket. His clothes were tatters, but through the blood and the dirt and the rags, a new Baines shone forth, a handsomer Baines than the dandy and the fop of yore. In the heart and soul of every son of woman lies the germ of manhood and honour. Remorse for a scurvy act, and an honourable desire to right the wrong he had done the woman he now knew he really loved, had excited these germs to rapid growth in Morrison Baines, and the metamorphosis had taken place. Onward the two stumbled toward the point from which the single rifle shot had come. The black was unarmed. Baines, fearing his loyalty, had not dared trust him even to carry the rifle which the white man would have been glad to be relieved of many times upon the long march. But now that they were approaching their goal, and knowing as he did that hatred of Malben burned hot in the black man's brain, Baines handed him the rifle, for he guessed that there would be fighting. He intended that there should be, for he had come to avenge. Himself, an excellent revolver shot, would depend upon the smaller weapon at his side. As the two forged the head toward their goal, they were startled by a volley of shots ahead of them. Then came a few scattering reports, some savage yells, and silence. Baines was frantic in his endeavours to advance more rapidly, but there the jungle seemed a thousand times more tangled than before. A dozen times he tripped and fell. Twice the black followed a blind trail and they were forced to retrace their steps. But at last they came out into a little clearing near the big affy, a clearing that once held a thriving village but lay somber and desolate in decay and ruin. In the jungle vegetation that overgrew what had once been the main village street lay the body of a black man, pierced through the heart with a bullet and still warm. Baines and his companion looked about in all directions, but no sign of living being could they discover. They stood in silence listening intently. What was that? Voices and the dip of paddles out upon the river? Baines ran across the dead village toward the fringe of jungle upon the river's brim. The black was at his side. Together they forced their way through the screening foliage until they could obtain a view of the river, and there almost to the other shore they saw Malbin's canoes making rapidly for camp. The black recognized his companions immediately. How can we cross? asked Baines.  There was no canoe and the crocodiles made it equivalent to suicide to enter the water in an attempt to swim across. Just then the fellow chanced to glance downward. Beneath him wedged among the branches of a tree lay the canoe in which Miriam had escaped. The negro grasped Baines' arm and pointed toward his find. The honorable Morrison could scarce repress a shout of exaltation. Quickly the two slid down the drooping branches into the boat. The black seized the paddle and Baines shoved them out from beneath the tree. A second later the canoe shot out upon the bosom of the river and headed toward the opposite shore and the camp of the swede. Baines squatted in the bow, straining his eyes after the men pulling the other canoes upon the bank across from him. He saw Malbin step from the bow of the foremost of the little craft. He saw him turn and glance back across the river. He could see his start of surprise as his eyes fell upon the pursuing canoe and called the attention of his followers to it. Then he stood waiting, for there was but one canoe and two men. Little danger to him and his followers in that. Malbin was puzzled. Who was this white man? He did not recognize him, though Baines' canoe was now in mid-stream and the features of both its occupants plainly discernible to those on shore. One of Malbin's blacks it was, who first recognized his fellow black in the person of Baines' companion. Then Malbin guessed who the white man must be, though he could scarce believe his own reasoning. It seemed beyond the pale of wildest conjecture to suppose that the honorable Morrison Baines had followed him through the jungle with but a single companion, and yet it was true. Beneath the dirt and dishevelment he recognized him at last, and in the necessity of admitting that it was he, Malbin was forced to recognize the incentive that had driven Baines, the weakling and coward, through the savage jungle upon his trail. The man had come to demand an accounting and to avenge. It seemed incredible, and yet there could be no other explanation. Malbin shrugged. Well, others had sought Malbin for similar reasons in the course of a long and checkered career. He fingered his rifle and waited. Now the canoe was within easy speaking distance of the shore. What do you want? yelled Malbin, raising his weapon threateningly. The honorable Morrison Baines leaked to his feet. You!  As the two reports rang out Malbin dropped his rifle, clutched frantically at his breast, staggered, fell first to his knees, and then lunged upon his face. Baines stiffened. His head flew back spasmodically. For an instant he stood thus and then crumpled very gently into the bottom of the boat. The black paddler was at a loss as to what to do. If Malbin really were dead he could continue on to join his fellows without fear. But should the Swede only be wounded he would be safer upon the far shore. Therefore he hesitated, holding the canoe in mid-stream. He had come to have considerable respect for his new master and was not unmoved by his death. As he sat gazing at the crumpled body in the bow of the boat he saw it move. Very feebly the man essayed to turn over. He still lived. The black moved forward and lifted him to a sitting position. He was standing in front of him, his paddle in one hand, asking Baines where he was hit. When there was another shot from shore and the negro pitched headlong overboard his paddle still clutched in his dead fingers, shot through the forehead. Baines turned weakly in the direction of the shore to see Malbin drawn up upon his elbows leveling his rifle at him. The Englishman slid to the bottom of the canoe as a bullet whizzed above him. Malbin soar hit, took longer in aiming, nor was his aim as shore as formerly. With difficulty Baines turned himself over on his belly and grasping his revolver in his right hand drew himself up until he could look over the edge of the canoe. Malbin saw him instantly and fired, but Baines did not flinch or duck. With painstaking care he aimed at the target upon the shore from which he now was drifting with the current, his finger closed upon the trigger. There was a flash and a report and Malbin's giant frame jerked to the impact of another bullet. But he was not yet dead. Again he aimed and fired, the bullet splintering the gunwale of the canoe close by Baines' face. Baines fired again as his canoe drifted further downstream and Malbin answered from the shore where he lay in a pool of his own blood. And thus doggedly the two wounded men continued to carry on their weird duel until the winding African River had carried the honourable Morrison Baines out of sight around a wooded point. CHAPTER XXIII Miriam had traversed half the length of the village street when a score of white-robed negroes and half-castes leaped out upon her from the dark interiors of surrounding huts.  At sight of him she staggered back in shock and terrified surprise. It was the chic, instantly all the old fears and terrors of her childhood returned upon her. She stood trembling before this horrible old man as a murderer before the judge about to pass sentence of death upon him. She knew that the chic recognised her. The years and the changed raiment had not altered her so much, but what one who had known her feature so well in childhood would know her now. So you have come back to your people, eh? snarled the chic. Come back begging for food and protection, eh? Let me go! cried the girl.  The big buanna almost screamed the chic, and then followed a stream of profane, Arabic invective against the white man whom all the transgressors of the jungle feared and hated. You would go back to the big buanna, would you? So that is where you have been since you ran away from me, is it? And who comes now across the river after you, the big buanna?  The chic's eyes blazed, and he called his men to approach the shore and hide among the bushes that they might ambush and annihilate Malben and his party. But Malben already had landed, and crawling through the fringe of jungle was at that very moment looking with wide and incredulous eyes upon the scene being enacted in the street of the deserted village. He recognized the chic the moment his eyes fell upon him. There were two men in the world that Malben feared as he feared the devil. One was the big buanna, and the other the chic. A single glance he took at that gaunt familiar figure, and then he turned tail and scurried back to his canoe, calling his followers after him. And so it happened that the party was well out in the stream before the chic reached the shore, and after a volley and a few parting shots that were returned from the canoes the A-Rab called his men off and securing his prisoner set off toward the south. One of the bullets from Malben's force had struck a black standing in the village street where he had been left with another to guard Merriam, and his companions had left him where he had fallen, after appropriating his apparel and belongings. His was the body that Baines had discovered when he had entered the village. The chic and his party had been marching southward along the river when one of them, dropping out of line to fetch water, had seen Merriam paddling desperately from the opposite shore. The fellow had called the chic's attention to the strange site, a white woman alone in Central Africa, and the old A-Rab had hidden his men in the deserted village to capture her when she landed, for thoughts of ransom were always in the mind of the chic. More than once before had glittering gold filtered through his fingers from a similar source. It was easy money, and the chic had none too much easy money since the Big Buona had so circumscribed the limits of his ancient domain that he dared not even steal ivory from natives within two hundred miles of the Big Buona's duar. And when at last the woman had walked into the trap he had set for her, and he had recognized her as the same little girl he had brutalized and maltreated years before, his gratification had been huge. Now he lost no time in establishing the old relations of father and daughter that had existed between them in the past.  He forced her to walk when he might have dismounted one of his men instead, or had her carried on a horse's rump. He seemed to rebel in the discovery of new methods for torturing or humiliating her, and among all his followers she found no single one to offer her sympathy, or who dared defend her even had they had the desire to do so. At two days' march brought them at last to the familiar scenes of her childhood, and the first face upon which she set her eyes as she was driven through the gates into the strong stockade was that of the toothless hideous Mabunu, her one-time nurse. It was as though all the years that had intervened were but a dream. Had it not been for her clothing and the fact that she had grown in stature she might well have believed it so. All was there as she had left it. The new faces which supplanted some of the old were of the same bestial degraded type. There were a few young Arabs who had joined the chic since she had been away. Otherwise all was the same. All but one. Geeka was not there, and she found herself missing Geeka as though the ivory-headed one had been a flesh and blood intimate and friend.  Geeka of the splendor limbs and the rat-skin torso. Geeka the disreputable. Geeka the beloved. For a time the inhabitants of the chic's village who had not been upon the march with him amused themselves by inspecting the strangely clad white girl whom some of them had known as a little child. Mabunu pretended great joy at her return, bearing her toothless gums in a hideous grimace that was intended to be indicative of rejoicing. But Miriam could but shudder as she recalled the cruelties of this terrible old hag in the years gone by. Among the A-Rabs who had come in her absence was a tall young fellow of twenty, a handsome, sinister-looking youth who stared at her in open admiration until the chic came and ordered him away, and Abdul Kamak went scowling. At last their curiosity satisfied Miriam was alone. As of old she was permitted the freedom of the village, for the stockade was high and strong, and the only gates were well guarded by day and by night, but as of old she cared not for the companionship of the cruel A-Rabs and the degraded blacks who formed the following of the chic, and so as had been her woent in the sad days of her childhood she slunk down to an unfrequented corner of the enclosure where she had often played at housekeeping with her beloved Geeka beneath the spreading branches of the great tree that had overhung the palisade. But now the tree was gone and Miriam guessed the reason. It was from this tree that Korak had descended and struck down the chic the day that he had rescued her from the life of misery and torture that had been her lot for so long that she could remember no other. There were low bushes growing within the stockade, however, and in the shade of these Miriam sat down to think. A little glow of happiness warmed her heart as she recalled her first meeting with Korak, and then the long years that he had cared for and protected her with the solicitude and purity of an elder brother. For months Korak had not so occupied her thoughts as he did today. He seemed closer and dearer now than ever he had before, and she wondered that her heart had drifted so far from loyalty to his memory. And then came the image of the Honourable Morrison, the exquisite, and Miriam was troubled. Did she really love the flawless young Englishman? She thought of the glories of London of which he had told her in such glowing language. She tried to picture herself admired and honoured in the midst of the gayest society of the great capital. The pictures she drew were the pictures that the Honourable Morrison had drawn for her. They were alluring pictures, but through them all the brawny, half-naked figure of the giant Adonis of the jungle persisted in obtruding itself. Miriam pressed her hand above her heart as she stifled aside, and as she did so she felt the hard outlines of the photographs she had hidden there as she slunk from Malben's tent. Now she drew it forth and commenced to re-examine it more carefully than she had had time to do before. She was sure that the baby face was hers. She studied every detail of the picture. Half-hidden in the lace of the dainty dress rested a chain and locket. Miriam puckered her brows. What tantalising half-memories it awakened! Could this flower of evident civilisation be the little A-rab Miriam, daughter of the sheik? It was impossible. And yet that locket. Miriam knew it. She could not refute the conviction of her memory. She had seen that locket before, and it had been hers. What strange mystery lay buried in her past. As she sat gazing at the picture she suddenly became aware that she was not alone, that someone was standing close behind her, someone who had approached her noiselessly. Guiltily she thrust the picture back into her waist. A hand fell upon her shoulder.  No blow came, and she looked upward over her shoulder into the eyes of Abdul Kamak, the young A-rab. I saw, he said, the picture that you have just hidden. It is you when you were a child, a very young child. May I see it again? Miriam drew away from him. I will give it back, he said. I have heard of you, and I know that you have no love for the sheik, your father. Neither have I. I will not betray you. Let me see the picture. Friendless among cruel enemies, Miriam clutched at the straw that Abdul Kamak held out to her. Perhaps in him she might find the friend she needed. Anyway, he had seen the picture, and if he was not a friend he could tell the sheik about it, and it would be taken away from her, so she might as well grant his request and hope that he had spoken fairly, and would deal fairly. She drew the photograph from its hiding place and handed it to him. Abdul Kamak examined it carefully, comparing it feature by feature with the girl sitting on the ground looking up into his face. Slowly he nodded his head. Yes, he said, it is you. But where was it taken? How does it happen that the sheik's daughter is clothed in the garments of the unbeliever? I do not know, replied Miriam. I never saw the picture until a couple of days ago, when I found it in the tent of the swede, Malbin. Abdul Kamak raised his eyebrows.  He could read French with difficulty, it is true, but he could read it. He had been to Paris. He had spent six months there with a troupe of his desert fellows upon exhibition, and he had improved his time, learning many of the customs, some of the language, and most of the vices of his conquerors. Now he put his learning to use. Slowly, laboriously, he read the yellowed cutting. His eyes were no longer wide. Instead they narrowed to two slits of cunning. When he had done he looked at the girl. You have read these, he asked. It is French, she replied, and I do not read French. Abdul Kamak stood long in silence looking at the girl. She was very beautiful. He desired her, as had many other men who had seen her. At last he dropped to one knee beside her. A wonderful idea had sprung to Abdul Kamak's mind. It was an idea that might be furthered if the girl were kept in ignorance of the contents of that newspaper cutting. It would certainly be doomed should she learn its contents. Miriam, he whispered, never until to-day have my eyes beheld you, yet at once they told my heart that it must ever be your servant. You do not know me, but I ask that you trust me. I can help you.  Let me take you away from him. Come with me, and we will go back to the great desert where my father is a sheik, right here, then, is yours. Will you come?" Miriam sat in silence. She hated to wound the only one who had offered her protection and friendship, but she did not want Abdul Kamak's love. Deceived by her silence, the man seized her and strained her to him. But Miriam struggled to free herself. I do not love you, she cried.  You are the only one who has shown kindness toward me, and I want to like you, but I cannot love you." Abdul Kamak drew himself to his full height. "'You will learn to love me,' he said, for I shall take you whether you will or know.   Abdul turned to see the sheik standing a few paces from them. Abdul still held the picture in his hand. Now he thrust it within his bernouse.  And as he spoke, he sprang toward the older man, felled him with a blow, and dashed on across the village to the line where his horse was picketed, saddled and ready, for Abdul Kamak had been about to ride forth to hunt when he had seen the stranger girl alone by the bushes, leaping into the saddle Abdul Kamak dashed for the village gates. The sheik, momentarily stunned by the blow that had felled him, now staggered to his feet, shouting lustily to his followers to stop the escaped Arab. A dozen blacks leaped forward to intercept the horseman, only to be ridden down or brushed aside by the muzzle of Abdul Kamak's long musket which he lashed from side to side about him as he spurred on toward the gate, but here he must surely be intercepted. Already the two blacks stationed there were pushing the unwieldy portals too. Up flew the barrel of the fugitive's weapon, with rains flying loose and his horse at a mad gallop the son of the desert fired once, twice, and both the keepers of the gate dropped in their tracks, with a wild whoop of exaltation twirling his musket high above his head and turning in his saddle to laugh back into the faces of his pursuers Abdul Kamak dashed out of the village of the sheik and was swallowed up by the jungle. Foaming with rage the sheik ordered immediate pursuit and then strode rapidly back to where Miriam sat huddled by the bushes where he had left her. The picture, he cried, what picture did the dog speak of? Where is it? Give it to me at once. He took it, replied Miriam Dully. What was it, again demanded the sheik, seizing the girl roughly by the hair and dragging her to her feet where he shook her venomously. What was it a picture of? Of me, said Miriam, when I was a little girl. I stole it from Malbin the Swede. It had printing on the back cut from an old newspaper. The sheik went white with rage. What said the printing, he asked in a voice so low that she but barely caught his words. I do not know. It was in French, and I cannot read French. The sheik seemed relieved. He almost smiled, nor did he again strike Miriam before he turned and strode away with the parting admonition that she speak never again to any other than Mabunu and himself. And along the caravan trail galloped Abdul Kamak toward the north. As his canoe drifted out of sight and range of the wounded Swede, the honourable Morrison sank weakly to its bottom, where he lay for hours in partial stupor. It was night before he fully regained consciousness, and then he lay for a long time looking up at the stars and trying to recollect where he was, what accounted for the gently rocking motion of the thing upon which he lay, and why the position of the stars changed so rapidly and miraculously. For a while he thought he was dreaming, but when he would have moved to shake sleep from him the pain of his wound recalled to him the events that had led up to his present position. Then it was that he realised that he was floating down a great African river in a native canoe, alone, wounded, and lost. Painfully he dragged himself to a sitting position. He noticed that the wound pained him less than he had imagined it would. He felt of it gingerly. It had ceased to bleed. Possibly it was but a flesh wound after all, and nothing serious. If it totally incapacitated him even for a few days it would mean death, for by that time he would be too weakened by hunger and pain to provide food for himself. From his own troubles his mind turned to Miriam's. That she had been with the Swede at the time he had attempted to reach the fellow's camp he naturally believed. But he wondered what would become of her now. Even if Hanson died of his wounds would Miriam be any better off? She was in the power of equally villainous men, brutal savages of the lowest order.  His wicked desire had snatched a pure and innocent girl from the protection of those who loved her to hurl her into the clutches of the bestial Swede and his outcast following, and not until it had become too late had he realised the magnitude of the crime he himself had planned and contemplated. Not until it had become too late had he realised that greater than his desire, greater than his lust, greater than any passion he had ever felt before, was the newborn love that burned within his breast for the girl he would have ruined. The honourable Morrison Baines did not fully realise the change that had taken place within him had one suggested that he ever had been ought than the soul of honour and chivalry he would have taken umbridge forthwith. He knew that he had done a vile thing when he had plotted to carry Miriam away to London, yet he excused it on the ground of his great passion for the girl having temporarily warped his moral standards by the intensity of its heat. But as a matter of fact a new Baines had been born. Never again could this man be bent to dishonour by the intensity of a desire.  His mind and his soul had been purged by sorrow and remorse. His one thought now was to atone, win to Miriam's side and lay down his life if necessary in her protection. His eyes sought the length of the canoe in search of the paddle, for a determination had galvanised him to immediate action despite his weakness and his wound. But the paddle was gone. He turned his eyes toward the shore. Dimly through the darkness of a moonless night he saw the awful blackness of the jungle. Yet it touched no responsive court of terror within him now as it had done in the past. He did not even wonder that he was unafraid for his mind was entirely occupied with thoughts of another's danger. Drawing himself to his knees he leaned over the edge of the canoe and commenced to paddle vigorously with his open palm. Though it tired and hurt him he kept assiduously at his self-imposed labour for hours. Little by little the drifting canoe moved nearer and nearer the shore. The honourable Morrison could hear a lion roaring directly opposite him and so close that he felt he must be almost to the shore. He drew his rifle closer to his side, but he did not cease to paddle. After what seemed to the tired man an eternity of time he felt the brush of branches against the canoe and heard the swirl of the water about them. A moment later he reached out and clutched a leafy limb, again the lion roared, very near it seemed now, and Baines wondered if the brute could have been following along the shore, waiting for him to land. He tested the strength of the limb to which he clung. It seemed strong enough to support a dozen men. Then he reached down and lifted his rifle from the bottom of the canoe, slipping the sling over his shoulder. Again he tested the branch, and then reaching upward as far as he could for a safe hold he drew himself painfully and slowly upward until his feet swung clear of the canoe, which, released, floated silently from beneath him to be lost forever in the blackness of the dark shadows downstream. He had burned his bridges behind him. He must either climb aloft or drop back into the river, but there had been no other way. He struggled to raise one leg over the limb, but found himself scarce equal to the effort, for he was very weak. For a time he hung there feeling his strength ebbing. He knew that he must gain the branch above at once, or it would be too late. Suddenly the lion roared almost in his ear. Banes glanced up. He saw two spots of flame a short distance from and above him. The lion was standing on the bank of the river, glaring at him, and waiting for him. Well thought the honourable Morrison, let him wait. Lions can't climb trees, and if I get into this one I shall be safe enough from him. The young Englishman's feet hung almost to the surface of the water, closer than he knew, for all was pitch dark below, as above him. Presently he heard a slight commotion in the river beneath him, and something banged against one of his feet, followed almost instantly by a sound that he felt he could not have mistaken, the click of great jaws snapping together. By George, exclaimed the honourable Morrison aloud, the beggar nearly got me, and immediately he struggled again to climb higher and to comparative safety, but with that final effort he knew that it was futile. Hope that had survived persistently until now began to wane. He felt his tired, numbed fingers slipping from their hold. He was dropping back into the river, into the jaws of the frightful death that awaited him there. And then he heard the leaves above him rustle to the movement of a creature among them, the branch to which he clung bent beneath an added weight, and no light weight, from the way it sagged, but still vanes clung desperately. He would not give up voluntarily either to the death above or the death below. He felt a soft warm pad upon the fingers of one of his hands, where they circled the branch to which he clung, and then something reached down out of the blackness above, and dragged him up among the branches of the tree. End of Chapter 23 Chapter 24 OF SON OF TARZAN This Librivox recording is in the public domain. SON OF TARZAN by Edgar Rice Burroughs Chapter 24 Sometimes lolling upon Tantor's back, sometimes roaming the jungle in solitude, Korak made his way slowly toward the west and south. He made but a few miles a day, for he had a whole lifetime before him, and no place in particular to go. Possibly he would have moved more rapidly, but for the thought which continually haunted him that each mile he traversed carried him further and further away from Miriam. No longer his Miriam, as of your, it is true, but still as dear to him as ever. Thus he came upon the trail of the Sheik's Band as it travelled down river from the point where the Sheik had captured Miriam to his own stock-aided village. Korak pretty well knew who it was that had passed, for there were few in the jungle with whom he was not familiar, though it had been years since he had come this far north. He had no particular business, however, with the old Sheik, and so he did not propose following him. The further from men he could stay the better pleased he would be. He wished that he might never see a human face again. Men always brought him sorrow and misery. The river suggested fishing, and so he waddled upon its shores, catching fish after a fashion of his own devising and eating them raw. When night came he curled up in a great tree beside the stream, the one from which he had been fishing during the afternoon, and was soon asleep. Numa, roaring beneath him, awoke him. He was about to call out in anger to his noisy neighbour when something else caught his attention. He listened. Was there something in the tree beside himself? Yes, he heard the noise of something below him trying to clamour upward. Presently he heard the click of a crocodile's jaws in the waters beneath, and then low but distinct, by George the beggar nearly got me. The voice was familiar. Korak glanced downward toward the speaker. Outlined against the faint luminosity of the water he saw the figure of a man clinging to a lower branch of the tree. Silently and swiftly the eight men clamoured downward. He fell to hand beneath his foot. He reached down and clutched the figure beneath him, and dragged it up among the branches. It struggled weakly and struck at him, but Korak paid no more attention than Tantor to an ant. He lugged his burden to the higher safety and greater comfort of a broad crotch, and there he propped it in a sitting position against the bowl of the tree.  Korak shouted down at him, calling him in the language of the great capes, old green-eyed eater of carrion, brother of dango the hyena, and other choice appellations of jungle approprium. The honourable Morrison Baines, listening, fell assured that a gorilla had seized upon him. He felt for his revolver, and as he was drawing it stealthily from its holster, a voice asked in perfectly good English, Who are you? Baines started so that he nearly fell from the branch. Great Scott, he exclaimed. Are you a man? What did you think I was? asked Korak. A gorilla, replied Baines honestly. Korak laughed. Who are you? he repeated. I'm an Englishman by the name of Baines. But who the devil are you? asked the honourable Morrison. They call me the killer, replied Korak, giving me English translation of the name that Acute had given him, and then after a pause during which the honourable Morrison attempted to pierce the darkness and catch a glimpse of the features of the strange being into whose hands he had fallen. You are the same whom I saw kissing the girl at the edge of the great plain to the east, that time that the lion charged you? Yes, replied Baines. What are you doing here? The girl was stolen. I am trying to rescue her. Stolen? the word was shot out like a bullet from a gun. Who stole her? The Swede traitor. Hanson, replied Baines. Where is he? Baines related Korak all that had transpired since he had come upon Hanson's camp. Before he was done the first gray dawn had relieved the darkness. Korak made the Englishman comfortable in the tree. He filled his canteen from the river and fetched him fruits to eat. Then he bid him good-bye. I am going to the Swede's camp, he announced. I will bring the girl back to you here. I shall go to then, insisted Baines. It is my right and my duty, for she was to have become my wife. Korak winced. You are wounded. You could not make the trip, he said. I can go much faster alone. Go then, replied Baines, but I shall follow. It is my right and duty. As you will, replied Korak with a shrug. If the man wanted to be killed it was none of his affair. He wanted to kill him himself, but for Miriam's sake he would not. If she loved him then he must do what he could to preserve him. But he could not prevent his following him more than to advise him against it, and this he did, earnestly. And so Korak set out rapidly toward the north, and limping slowly and painfully along, soon far to the rear, came the tired and wounded Baines. Korak had reached the river bank opposite Malbin's camp, before Baines had covered two miles. Late in the afternoon the Englishman was still plotting wearily along, forced to stop often for rest, when he heard the sound of the galloping feed of a horse behind him. Instinctively he drew into the concealing foliage of the underbrush, and a moment later a white-robed Arab dashed by. Baines did not hail the rider. He had heard of the nature of the Arabs who penetrate thus far to the south, and what he had heard had convinced him that a snake or a panther would as quickly befriend him as one of these villainous renegades from the north land. When Abdul Kamak had passed out of sight toward the north, Baines resumed his weary march. A half hour later he was again surprised by the unmistakable sound of galloping horses. This time there were many. Once more he sought a hiding place, but at chance that he was crossing a clearing which offered little opportunity for concealment. He broke into a slow trot, the best that he could do in his weakened condition, but it did not suffice to carry him to safety, and before he reached the opposite side of the clearing a band of white-robed horsemen dashed into view behind him. At sight of him they shouted in Arabic, which of course he could not understand, and then they closed about him, threatening and angry. Their questions were unintelligible to him, and no more could they interpret his English. At last evidently out of patience the leader ordered two of his men to seize him, which they lost no time in doing. They disarmed him and ordered him to climb to the rump of one of the horses, and then the two who had been detailed to guard him turned and rode back toward the south while the others continued their pursuit of Abdul Kamak. As Korak came out upon the bank of the river across from which he could see the camp of Malban he was at a loss as to how he was to cross. He could see men moving about among the huts inside the Boma. Evidently Hanson was still there. Korak did not know the true identity of Miriam's abductor. How was he to cross? Not even he would dare the perils of the river, almost certain death. For a moment he thought, then wheeled and sped away into the jungle, uttering a peculiar cry, shrill and piercing. Now and again he would halt to listen as though for an answer to his weird call, then on again deeper and deeper into the wood. At last his listening ears were rewarded by the sound they craved, the trumpeting of a bull-elephant, and a few moments later Korak broke through the trees into the presence of Tantor, standing with upraised trunk waving his great ears. Quick Tantor shouted the ape-man, and the beast swung him to his head.  Toward the northwest Korak guided his huge mount until he came out upon the river a mile or more above the Swedes' camp, at a point where Korak knew that there was an elephant ford. Over pausing the ape-man urged the beast into the river, and with trunk held high Tantor ford steadily toward the opposite bank. Once an unwary crocodile attacked him, but the sinuous trunk dove beneath the surface and grasping the amphibian about the middle dragged it to light and hurled it a hundred feet downstream, and so in safety they made the opposite shore. Korak perched high and dry above the turgid flood. Then back toward the south Tantor moved steadily, relentlessly, and with a swinging gait which took no heat of any obstacle other than the larger jungle trees. At times Korak was forced to abandon the broad head and take to the trees above so close the branches raked the back of the elephant, but at last they came to the edge of the clearing where lay the camp of the renegade swede, nor even then did they hesitate or halt. The gait lay upon the each side of the camp facing the river. Tantor and Korak approached from the north. There was no gait there, but what cared Tantor or Korak for gates? At a word from the ape-man and raising his tender trunk high above the thorns, Tantor breasted the Boma, walking through it as though it had not existed. A dozen blacks squatted before their huts looked up at the noise of his approach. With sudden howls of terror and amazement they leaped to their feet and fled for the open gates. Tantor would have pursued. He hated man, and he thought that Korak had come to hunt these, but the ape-man held him back, guiding him toward a large canvas tent that rose in the center of the clearing. There should be the girl and her abductor. Malben lay in the hammock beneath the canopy before his tent. His wounds were painful, and he had lost much blood. He was very weak. He looked up in surprise as he heard the screams of his men and saw them running toward the gate, and then from around the corner of his tent loomed a huge bulk, and Tantor the great tusker towered above him. Malben's boy, feeling neither affection nor loyalty for his master, broke and ran at the first glimpse of the beast, and Malben was left alone and helpless. The elephant stopped a couple of paces from the wounded man's hammock. Malben cowered, moaning. He was too weak to escape. He could only lie there with staring eyes, gazing in horror into the blood-rimmed, angry little orbs fixed upon him, and await his death. Then, to his punishment, a man slid to the ground from the elephant's back, almost at once Malben recognized the strange figure as that of the creature who consorted with apes and baboons, the white warrior of the jungle who had freed the king baboon and led the whole angry horde of hairy devils upon him and Jensen. Malben cowered still lower. Where is the girl? demanded Korak in English. What girl? asked Malben. There is no girl here. Only the vehement of my boys. Is it one of them you want? The white girl, replied Korak, do not lie to me. You lured her from her friends. You have her. Where is she? It was not I, cried Malben. It was an Englishman who hired me to steal her. He wished to take her to London with him. She was willing to go. His name is Baines. Go to him if you want to know where the girl is. I have just come from him, said Korak. He sent me to you. The girl is not with him.  Where is she? Korak took a threatening step toward the swede. Malben shrank from the anger in the other's face. I will tell you, he cried, do not harm me, and I will tell you all that I know. I had the girl here, but it was Baines who persuaded her to leave her friends. He had promised to marry her. He does not know who she is, but I do, and I know that there is a great reward for whoever takes her back to her people. It was only the reward I wanted, but she escaped and crossed the river in one of my canoes. I followed her, but the sheik was there.  Then came Baines, angry because he had lost the girl and shot me. If you want her, go to the sheik and ask him for her. She has passed as his daughter since childhood. She is not the sheik's daughter, asked Korak. She is not, replied Malben. Who is she then, asked Korak? Here Malben saw his chance. Possibly he could make use of his knowledge after all. It might even buy back his life for him. He was not so credulous as to believe that this savvy jake man would have any compunctions about slaying him. When you find her, I will tell you, he said, if you will promise to spare my life and divide the reward with me, if you kill me, you will never know, for only the sheik knows, and he will never tell. The girl herself is ignorant of her origin. If you have told me the truth, I will spare you, said Korak. I shall go now to the sheik's village, and if the girl is not there, I shall return and slay you. As for the other information you have, if the girl wants it when we have found her, we will find a way to purchase it from you. The look in the killer's eyes and his emphasis of the word purchase were none to reassuring to Malben. Evidently, unless he found means to escape, this devil would have both his secret and his life before he was done with him. He wished he would be gone and take his side companion away with him. The swaying bolt towering high above him, and the ugly little eyes of the elephant watching his every move made Malben nervous. Korak stepped into the swede's tent to assure himself that Miriam was not hid there. As he disappeared from view, Tantor, his eyes still fixed upon Malben, took a step nearer the man. An elephant's eyesight is none too good, but the great tusker evidently had harbored suspicions of this yellow-bearded white man from the first. Now he advanced his snake-like trunk toward the swede, who shrank still deeper into his hammock. The sensitive member felled and smelled back and forth along the body of the terrified Malben. Tantor uttered a low, rumbling sound.   Tantor, the elephant, never forgets and never forgives. Malben saw, in the demoniacal visage above him, the murderous purpose of the beast. He shrieked aloud to Korak, Help! Help!  Korak ran from the tent, just in time to see the enraged elephant's trunk encircle the beast's victim, and then Hammet, Canopy, and Man were swung high over Tantor's head. Korak leaped before the animal, commanding him to put down his prey unharmed. But as well mighty have ordered the eternal river to reverse its course, Tantor wheeled around like a cat, hurled Malben to the earth, and kneeled upon him with the quickness of a cat. Then he gored the prostrate thing through and through with his mighty tusks, trumpeting and roaring in his rage, and at first convinced that no slightest spark of life remained in the crushed and lacerated flesh, he lifted the shapeless clay that had been Zven Malben, far aloft, and hurled the bloody mass, still entangled in Canopy and Hammock, over the Boma and out into the jungle. Korak stood looking sorrowfully on at the tragedy he gladly would have averted. He had no love for the swede, in fact only hatred, but he would have preserved the man for the sake of the secret he possessed. Now that secret was gone forever, unless the sheik could be made to divulge it. But in that possibility Korak placed little faith. The ape-man, as unafraid of the mighty Tantor as though he had not just witnessed his shocking murder of a human being, signaled the beast to approach and lift him to its head, and Tantor came as he was bid, docile as a kitten, and hoisted the killer tenderly aloft.  End of Chapter 24 The sheik glowered at the prisoner which his two men brought back to him from the north. He had sent the party after Abdul Kamak, and he was wroth, that instead of his erstwhile lieutenant they had sent back a wounded and useless Englishman. Why had they not dispatched him where they had found him? He was some penniless beggar of a trader who had wandered from his own district and became lost. He was worthless. The sheik scowled terribly upon him. "'Who are you?' he asked in French. "'I am the honourable Morrison Baines of London,' replied his prisoner. The title sounded promising, and at once the wily old robber had visions of ransom. His intentions, if not his attitude toward the prisoner, underwent a change. He would investigate further. What were you doing poaching in my country?' growled he. "'I was not aware that you owned Africa,' replied the honourable Morrison. I was searching for a young woman who had been abducted from the home of a friend. The abductor wounded me, and I drifted down river in a canoe. I was on my way back to his house when your men seized me.' "'A young woman,' asked the sheik, "'is that she?' and he pointed to his left over toward a clump of bushes near the stockade. Baines looked in the direction indicated, and his eyes went wide, for there sitting cross-legged upon the ground her back toward them was Miriam. "'Miriam!' he shouted, starting toward her, but one of his guards grasped his arm and jerked him back. The girl leaped over her feet and turned toward him as she heard her name.  Your daughter,' ejaculated Baines, "'she is your daughter?' "'She is my daughter,' growled the A-rab, and she is not for any unbeliever. You have earned death, Englishman, but if you can pay for your life I will give it to you.' Baines's eyes were still wide at the unexpected sight of Miriam here in the camp of the A-rab when he had thought her in Hanson's power. What had happened? How had she escaped the swede? Had the A-rab taken her by force from him? Or had she escaped and come voluntarily back to the protection of the man who called her daughter? He would have given much for a word with her. If she was safe here he might only harm her by antagonizing the A-rab in an attempt to take her away and return her to her English friends. No longer did the honourable Morrison harbour thoughts of luring the girl to London. "'Well?' asked the sheik. "'Oh,' exclaimed Baines, "'I beg your pardon. I was thinking of something else. Why, yes, of course, glad to pay, I'm sure. How much do you think I'm worth?' The sheik named a sum that was rather less exorbitant than the honourable Morrison had anticipated. The latter nodded his head in token of his entire willingness to pay. He would have promised to sum far beyond his resources just as readily, for he had no intention of paying anything. His one reason for seeming to comply with the sheik's demands was that the wait for the coming of the ransom money would give him the time and the opportunity to free Miriam if he found that she wished to be freed. The A-rab's statement that he was her father naturally raised the question in the honourable Morrison's mind as to precisely what the girl's attitude toward escape might be. It seemed, of course, preposterous that this fair and beautiful young woman should prefer to remain in the filthy duar of an illiterate old A-rab rather than return to the comforts, luxuries, and congenial associations of the hospitable African bungalow from which the honourable Morrison had tricked her. The man flashed at the thought of his duplicity which these recollections aroused, thoughts which were interrupted by the sheik who instructed the honourable Morrison to write a letter to the British consul at Algiers dictating the exact phraseology of it with a fluency that indicated to his captive that this was not the first time the old rascal had had occasion to negotiate with English relatives for the ransom of a kinsman. Baines demurred when he saw that the letter was addressed to the consul at Algiers saying that it would require the better part of a year to get the money back to him, but the sheik would not listen to Baines planned to send a messenger directly to the nearest coast town and from there communicate with the nearest cable-state sending the honourable Morrison's request for funds straight to his own solicitors. To know the sheik was cautious and wary. He knew his own plan had worked well in the past. In the other were too many untried elements. He was in no hurry for the money. He could wait a year or two years if necessary, but it should not require over six months. He turned to one of the A-Rabs who had been standing behind him and gave the fellow instructions in relation to the prisoner. Baines could not understand the words spoken in Arabic, but the jerk of the thumb toward him showed that he was the subject of conversation. The A-Rab addressed by the sheik bowed to his master and beckoned Baines to follow him. The Englishman looked toward the sheik for confirmation. The latter nodded impatiently and the honourable Morrison rose and followed his guide toward a native hut which lay close beside one of the outside goat-skin tents. In the dark stifling interior his guard met him, then stepped to the doorway and called to a couple of black boys squatting before their own huts. They came promptly and in accordance with the A-Rab's instructions bound Baines' wrists and ankles securely. The Englishman objected strenuously, but as neither the blacks nor the A-Rab could understand a word he said his pleas were wasted. Having bound him they left the hut. The honourable Morrison lay for a long time contemplating the frightful slaughter which awaited him during the long months which must intervene before his friends learned of his predicament and could get succour to him. Now he hoped that they would send the ransom. He would gladly pay all that he was worth to be out of this hole. At first it had been his intention to cable his solicitors to send no money but to communicate with the British West African authorities and have an expedition sent to his aid. His patrician nose wrinkled in disgust as his nostrils were assailed by the awful stench of the hut. The nasty grasses upon which he lay exuded the effluvium most sweaty bodies of decayed animal matter and of oval, but worse was yet to come. He had lain in the uncomfortable position in which they had thrown him, but for a few minutes when he became distinctly conscious of an acute itching sensation upon his hands, his neck and scalp. He wriggled to a sitting posture, horrified and disgusted. The itching rapidly extended to other parts of his body. It was torture and his hands were bound securely at his back. He tugged and pulled at his bonds until he was exhausted, but not entirely without hope, for he was sure that he was working enough slack out of the knots to eventually permit of his withdrawing one of his hands. Night came. They brought him neither food nor drink. He wondered if they expected him to live on nothing for a year. The bites of the vermin grew less annoying, though not less numerous. The honourable Morrison saw ray of hope in this indication of future immunity through inoculation. He still worked weakly at his bonds, and then the rats came. If the vermin were disgusting, the rats were terrifying. They scurried over his body, squealing and fighting. Finally one commenced a chew at one of his ears. With an oath, the honourable Morrison struggled to a sitting posture, the rats retreated. He worked his legs beneath him and came to his knees, and then by superhuman effort rose to his feet. There he stood, reeling drunkenly, dripping with cold sweat. God, he muttered, what have I done to deserve? He paused. What had he done? He thought of the girl in another tent in that accursed village. He was getting his deserts. He set his jaws firmly with the realisation. He would never complain again. At that moment he became aware of voices raised angrily in the goat's skin tent close beside the hut in which he lay. One of them was a woman's. Could it be Miriam's? The language was probably Arabic. He could not understand a word of it, but the tones were hers. He tried to think of some way of attracting her attention to his near presence. If she could remove his bonds they might escape together, if she wished to escape. That thought bothered him. He was not sure of her status in the village. If she were the petted child of the powerful sheik then she would probably not care to escape. He must know, definitely. At the bungalow he had often heard Miriam sing God Save the King as my dear accompanied her on the piano. Raising his voice he now hummed the tune. Immediately he heard Miriam's voice from the tent. She spoke rapidly. Goodbye, Morrison, she cried.  Then he heard an angry exclamation in a man's voice followed by the sounds of a scuffle. Baines went white with horror. He struggled frantically again with his bonds. They were giving. A moment later one hand was free. It was but the work of an instant then to loose the other. Stooping he untied the rope from his ankles, then he straightened and started for the hut doorway bent on reaching Miriam's side. As he stepped out into the night the figure of a huge black rose and barred his progress. When speed was required of him Corac depended upon no other muscles than his own, and so it was that the moment Tantor had landed him safely upon the same side of the river as lay the village of the Sheik the eight man deserted his bulky comrade and took to the trees in a rapid race toward the south and the spot where the swede had told him Miriam might be. It was dark when he came to the palisade, strengthened considerably since the day that he had rescued Miriam from her pitiful life within its cruel confines. No longer did the giant tree spread its branches above the wooden rampart, but ordinary man-made defenses were scarce considered obstacles by Corac. Loosening the rope at his waist he tossed the noose over one of the sharpened posts that composed the palisade. A moment later his eyes were above the level of the obstacle taking in all within their range beyond. There was no one in sight close by and Corac drew himself to the top and dropped lightly to the ground within the enclosure. Then he commenced his stealthy search of the village, first toward the A-Rab tents he made his way, sniffing and listening. He passed behind them for some sign of Miriam. Not even the wild A-Rab curse heard his passage, so silently he went, a shadow passing through shadows. The odor of tobacco told him that the A-Rabs were smoking before their tents. The sound of laughter fell upon his ears, and then from the opposite side of the village came the notes of a once familiar tune. God saved the king. Corac halted in perplexity. Who might it be? The tones were those of a man. He recalled the un-Englishman he had left on the river trail and who had disappeared before he returned. A moment later there came to him a woman's voice in reply. It was Miriam's, and the killer quickened into action, slunk rapidly in the direction of these two voices. The evening meal over Miriam had gone to her palette in the women's quarters of the sheik's tent, a little corner screened off in the rear by a couple of priceless Persian rugs to form a partition. In these quarters she had dwelt with Mabunu alone, for the sheik had no wives. Nor were conditions altered now after the years of her absence. She and Mabunu were alone in the women's quarters. Presently the sheik came and parted the rugs. He glared through the dim light of the interior. Miriam, he called, come hither. The girl arose and came into the front of the tent. There, the light of a fire illuminated the interior. She saw Ali Ben-Kaden, the sheik's half-brother, squattered upon a rug, smoking. The sheik was standing. The sheik and Ali Ben-Kaden had had the same father, but Ali Ben-Kaden's mother had been a slave, a west coast negrous. Ali Ben-Kaden was old and hideous and almost black. His nose and part of one sheik were away by disease. He looked up and grinned as Miriam entered. The sheik jerked his thumb toward Ali Ben-Kaden and addressed Miriam. I am getting old, he said. I shall not live much longer. Therefore I have given you to Ali Ben-Kaden, my brother. That was all. Ali Ben-Kaden rose and came toward her. Miriam shrank back horrified. The man seized her rest. Come, he commanded, and dragged her from the sheik's tent and to his own. After they had gone, the sheik chuckled. When I sent her north in a few months, he so lilliquized, they will know the reward for slaying the son of the sister of Amor Ben-Kator. And in Ali Ben-Kaden's tent Miriam pleaded and threatened, but all to no avail. The hideous old half-caste spoke soft words at first, but when Miriam loosed upon in the vials of her horror and loathing he became enraged and rushing upon her seized her in his arms. Twice she tore away from him, and in one of the intervals during which she managed to elude him she heard Bane's voice humming the tune that she knew was meant for her ears. At her reply Ali Ben-Kaden rushed upon her once again. This time he dragged her back into the rear apartment of his tent where three negrises looked up in stolid indifference to the tragedy being enacted before them. As the honourable Morrison saw his way blocked by the huge frame of the giant black, his disappointment and rage filled him with a bestial fury that transformed him into a savage beast with an oath he leaped upon the man before him, the momentum of his body hurling the black to the ground.  Bane's fingers shut off the cry for help that the other would have been glad to voice, but presently the negro succeeded in drawing his weapon, and an instant later Bane's felt the sharp steel in his shoulder. Again and again the weapon fell. The white man removed one hand from its choking grip upon the black throat. He felled around upon the ground beside him, searching for some missile, and at last his fingers touched a stone and closed upon it. Raising it above his antagonist's head, the honourable Morrison drove home a terrific blow. Instantly the black relaxed, stunned. Twice more Bane struck him. Then he leaped to his feet and ran for the goat's skin tent from which he had heard the voice of Miriam in distress. But before him was another, naked but for his leopard skin and his loincloth, Korak, the killer, slunk into the shadows at the back of Ali Ben-Kaden's tent. The half-caste had just dragged Miriam into the rear chamber as Korak's sharp knife slid a six-foot opening in the tent wall, and Korak, tall and mighty, sprang through upon the astonished visions of the inmates. Miriam saw and recognized him the instant that he entered the apartment. Her heart leaped in pride and joy at the sight of the noble figure for which it had hungered for so long. Korak! she cried. Miriam! he uttered the single word as he hurled himself upon the astonished Ali Ben-Kaden. The three negruses leaped from their sleeping mats, screaming. Miriam tried to prevent them from escaping, but before she could succeed the terrified blacks had darted through the hole in the tent wall made by Korak's knife and were gone screaming through the village. The killer's fingers closed once upon the throat of the hideous Ali, once his knife plunged into the putered heart, and Ali Ben-Kaden laid dead upon the floor of his tent. Korak turned toward Miriam, and at the same moment a bloody and disheveled apparition leaped into the apartment. Morrison cried the girl. Korak turned and looked at the newcomer. He had been about to take Miriam in his arms, forgetful of all that might have transpired since last he had seen her, then the coming of the young Englishman recalled the scene he had witnessed in the little clearing and a wave of misery swept over the ape-man. Already from without came the sounds of the alarm that the three negruses had started. Men were running toward the tent of Ali Ben-Kaden. There was no time to be lost. Quick! cried Korak, turning toward Baines, who had scarce yet realized whether he was facing a friend or foe. Take her to the palisade, following the rear of the tents. Here is my rope. With it you can scale the wall and make your escape. But you Korak! cried Miriam. I will remain, replied the ape-man. I have business with the sheik. Miriam would have demurred, but the killer seized them both by the shoulders and hustled them through the slit wall and out into the shadows beyond. Now run for it, he admonished, and turned to meet and hold those who were pouring into the tent from the front. The ape-man fought well, fought as he had never fought before, but the odds were too great for victory, though he won that which he most craved, time for the Englishman to escape with Miriam. Then he was overwhelmed by numbers, and a few minutes later bound and guarded he was carried to the sheik's tent. The old man eyed him in silence for a long time. He was trying to fix in his own mind some form of torture that would gratify his rage and hatred toward this creature who twice had been the means of his losing possession of Miriam. The killing of Ali Ben-Kaden caused him little anger.  The blow that this naked white warrior had once struck him added fuel to his rage. He could think of being adequate to the creature's offense. And as he sat there looking upon Korak the silence was broken by the trumpeting of an elephant in the jungle beyond the palisade. A half-smile touched Korak's lips. He turned his head a trifle in the direction from which the sound had come, and then there broke from his lips a low, weird call.  In the jungle Tantor cocked his ears as the sound of Korak's voice fell upon them. He approached the palisade and, lifting his trunk above it, sniffed. Then he placed his head against the wooden logs and pushed. But the palisade was strong and only gave a little to the pressure. In the sheik's tent the sheik rose at last and pointing toward the bound captive turned to one of his lieutenants. "'Burn him,' he commanded, at once. The stake is set.' The guard pushed Korak from the sheik's presence. They dragged him to the open space in the center of the village where a high stake was set in the ground. It had not been intended for burnings, but offered a convenient place to tie up refractory slaves that they might be beaten, oftentimes until death relieved their agonies. To this stake they run Korak. Then they brought brush and piled about him, and the sheik came and stood by that he might watch the agonies of his victim. But Korak did not winch even after they had fetched a brand and the flames had shot up among the dry tinder. Once then he raised his voice in the low call that he had given in the sheik's tent, and now from beyond the palisade came again the trumpeting of an elephant. Old Tantor had been pushing at the palisade in vain.  He wheeled and shuffled back a dozen paces. Then he turned, lifted his trunk and gave voice to a mighty roaring trumpet call of anger.  The palisade sagged and splintered to the impact, and through the breach rushed the infuriated bull. Korak heard the sounds that the others heard, and he interpreted them as the others did not. The flames were creeping closer to him when one of the blacks hearing a noise behind him turned to see the enormous bulk of Tantor lumbering toward them. The man screamed and fled, and then the bull elephant was among them tossing negroes and abrabs to right and left as he tore through the flames he feared to the side of the comrade he loved. The sheik calling orders to his followers ran to his tent to get his rifle. Tantor wrapped his trunk about the body of Korak and the stake to which it was bound and tore it from the ground. The flames were searing his sensitive hide, sensitive for all its thickness, so that in his frenzy to both rescue his friend and escape the hated fire he had all but crushed the life from the eight man. Lifting his burden high above his head, the giant beast wheeled and raced for the breach that he had just made in the palisade. The sheik, rifle in hand, rushed from his tent directly into the path of the maddened brute. He raised his weapon and fired once. The bullet missed its mark, and Tantor was upon him, crushing him beneath those gigantic feet as he raced over him as you and I might crush out the life of an ant that chanced to be in our pathway. And then, bearing his burden carefully, Tantor the elephant entered the blackness of the jungle. End of Chapter 25