would not have hurt you, above all others in the world. Say that you forgive me.
Wm. Cecil Clayton.
“He did think it or he never would have said it,” reasoned the girl, “but it cannot be true—oh, I know it is not true!”
One sentence in the letter frightened her: “I would not have hurt you above all others in the world.”
A week ago that sentence would have filled her with delight, now it depressed her.
She wished she had never met Clayton. She was sorry that she had ever seen the forest god. No, she was glad. And there was that other note she had found in the grass before the cabin the day after her return from the jungle, the love note signed by Tarzan of the Apes.
Who could be this new suitor? If he were another of the wild denizens of this terrible forest what might he not do to claim her?
“Esmeralda! Wake up,” she cried.
“You make me so irritable, sleeping there peacefully when you know perfectly well that the world is filled with sorrow.”
“Gaberelle!” screamed Esmeralda, sitting up. “What is it now? A hipponocerous? Where is he, Miss Jane?”
“Nonsense, Esmeralda, there is nothing. Go back to sleep. You are bad enough asleep, but you are infinitely worse awake.”
“Yes honey, but what’s the matter with you, precious? You acts sort of disgranulated this evening.”
“Oh, Esmeralda, I’m just plain ugly to-night,” said the girl. “Don’t pay any attention to me—that’s a dear.”
“Yes, honey; now you go right to sleep. Your nerves are all on edge. What with all these ripotamuses and man eating geniuses that Mister Philander been telling about—Lord, it ain’t no wonder we all get nervous prosecution.”
Jane crossed the little room, laughing, and kissing the faithful woman, bid Esmeralda good night.
Brother Men.
When D’Arnot regained consciousness, he found himself lying upon a bed of soft ferns and grasses beneath a little “A” shaped shelter of boughs.
At his feet an opening looked out upon a green sward, and at a little distance beyond was the dense wall of jungle and forest.
He was very lame and sore and weak, and as full consciousness returned he felt the sharp torture of many cruel wounds and the dull aching of every bone and muscle in his body as a result of the hideous beating he had received.
Even the turning of his head caused him such excruciating agony that he lay still with closed eyes for a long time.
He tried to piece out the details of his adventure prior to the time he lost consciousness to see if they would explain his present whereabouts—he wondered if he were among friends or foes.
At length he recollected the whole hideous scene at the stake, and finally recalled the strange white figure in whose arms he had sunk into oblivion.
D’Arnot wondered what fate lay in store for him now. He could neither see nor hear any signs of life about him.
The incessant hum of the jungle—the rustling of millions of leaves—the buzz of insects—the voices of the birds and monkeys seemed blended into a strangely soothing purr, as though he lay apart, far from the myriad life whose sounds came to him only as a blurred echo.
At length he fell into a quiet slumber, nor did he awake again until afternoon.
Once more he experienced the strange sense of utter bewilderment that had marked his earlier awakening, but soon he recalled the recent past, and looking through the opening at his feet he saw the figure of a man squatting on his haunches.
The broad, muscular back was turned toward him, but, tanned though it was, D’Arnot saw that it was the back of a white man, and he thanked God.
The Frenchman called faintly. The man turned, and rising, came toward the shelter. His face was very handsome—the handsomest, thought D’Arnot, that he had ever seen.
Stooping, he crawled into the shelter beside the wounded officer, and placed a cool hand upon his forehead.
D’Arnot spoke to him in French, but the man only shook his head—sadly, it seemed to the Frenchman.
Then D’Arnot tried English, but still the man shook his head. Italian, Spanish and German brought similar discouragement.
D’Arnot knew a few words of Norwegian, Russian, Greek, and also had a smattering of the language of one of the West Coast negro tribes—the man denied them all.
After examining D’Arnot’s wounds the man left the shelter and disappeared. In half an hour he was back with fruit and a hollow gourd-like vegetable filled with water.
D’Arnot drank and ate a little. He was surprised that he had no fever. Again he tried to converse with his strange nurse, but the attempt was useless.
Suddenly the man hastened from the shelter only to return a few minutes later with several pieces of bark and—wonder of wonders—a lead pencil.
Squatting beside D’Arnot he wrote for a minute on the smooth inner surface of the bark; then he handed it to the Frenchman.
D’Arnot was astonished to see, in plain print-like characters, a message in English:
I am Tarzan of the Apes. Who are you? Can you read this language?
D’Arnot seized the pencil—then he stopped. This strange man wrote English—evidently he was an Englishman.
“Yes,” said D’Arnot, “I read English. I speak it also. Now we may talk. First let me thank you for all that you have done for me.”
The man only shook his head and pointed to the pencil and the bark.
“Mon Dieu!” cried D’Arnot. “If you are English why is it then that you cannot speak English?”
And then in a flash it came to him—the man was a mute, possibly a deaf mute.
So D’Arnot wrote a message on the bark, in English.
I am Paul d’Arnot, Lieutenant in the navy of France. I thank you for what you have done for me. You have saved my life, and all that I have is yours. May I ask how it is that one who writes English does not speak it?
Tarzan’s reply filled D’Arnot with still greater wonder:
I speak only the language of my tribe—the great apes who were Kerchak’s; and a little of the languages of Tantor, the elephant, and Numa, the lion, and of the other folks of the jungle I understand. With a human being I have never spoken, except once with Jane Porter, by signs. This is the first time I have spoken with another of my kind through written words.
D’Arnot
