How Tarzan Came Again to Opar
When Clayton returned to the shelter and found Jane Porter was missing,
he became frantic with fear and grief. He found Monsieur Thuran quite
rational, the fever having left him with the surprising suddenness
which is one of its peculiarities. The Russian, weak and exhausted,
still lay upon his bed of grasses within the shelter.
When Clayton asked him about the girl he seemed surprised to know that
she was not there.
“I have heard nothing unusual,” he said. “But then I have been
unconscious much of the time.”
Had it not been for the man’s very evident weakness, Clayton should
have suspected him of having sinister knowledge of the girl’s
whereabouts; but he could see that Thuran lacked sufficient vitality
even to descend, unaided, from the shelter. He could not, in his
present physical condition, have harmed the girl, nor could he have
climbed the rude ladder back to the shelter.
Until dark the Englishman searched the nearby jungle for a trace of the
missing one or a sign of the trail of her abductor. But though the
spoor left by the fifty frightful men, unversed in woodcraft as they
were, would have been as plain to the densest denizen of the jungle as
a city street to the Englishman, yet he crossed and recrossed it twenty
times without observing the slightest indication that many men had
passed that way but a few short hours since.
As he searched, Clayton continued to call the girl’s name aloud, but
the only result of this was to attract Numa, the lion. Fortunately the
man saw the shadowy form worming its way toward him in time to climb
into the branches of a tree before the beast was close enough to reach
him. This put an end to his search for the balance of the afternoon, as
the lion paced back and forth beneath him until dark.
Even after the beast had left, Clayton dared not descend into the awful
blackness beneath him, and so he spent a terrifying and hideous night
in the tree. The next morning he returned to the beach, relinquishing
the last hope of succoring Jane Porter.
During the week that followed, Monsieur Thuran rapidly regained his
strength, lying in the shelter while Clayton hunted food for both. The
men never spoke except as necessity demanded. Clayton now occupied the
section of the shelter which had been reserved for Jane Porter, and
only saw the Russian when he took food or water to him, or performed
the other kindly offices which common humanity required.
When Thuran was again able to descend in search of food, Clayton was
stricken with fever. For days he lay tossing in delirium and suffering,
but not once did the Russian come near him. Food the Englishman could
not have eaten, but his craving for water amounted practically to
torture. Between the recurrent attacks of delirium, weak though he was,
he managed to reach the brook once a day and fill a tiny can that had
been among the few appointments of the lifeboat.
Thuran watched him on these occasions with an expression of malignant
pleasure—he seemed really to enjoy the suffering of the man who,
despite the just contempt in which he held him, had ministered to him
to the best of his ability while he lay suffering the same agonies. At
last Clayton became so weak that he was no longer able to descend from
the shelter. For a day he suffered for water without appealing to the
Russian, but finally, unable to endure it longer, he asked Thuran to
fetch him a drink. The Russian came to the entrance to Clayton’s room,
a dish of water in his hand. A nasty grin contorted his features.
“Here is water,” he said. “But first let me remind you that you
maligned me before the girl—that you kept her to yourself, and would
not share her with me—”
Clayton interrupted him. “Stop!” he cried. “Stop! What manner of cur
are you that you traduce the character of a good woman whom we believe
dead! God! I was a fool ever to let you live—you are not fit to live
even in this vile land.”
“Here is your water,” said the Russian. “All you will get,” and he
raised the basin to his lips and drank; what was left he threw out upon
the ground below. Then he turned and left the sick man.
Clayton rolled over, and, burying his face in his arms, gave up the
battle.
The next day Thuran determined to set out toward the north along the
coast, for he knew that eventually he must come to the habitations of
civilized men—at least he could be no worse off than he was here, and,
furthermore, the ravings of the dying Englishman were getting on his
nerves. So he stole Clayton’s spear and set off upon his journey. He
would have killed the sick man before he left had it not occurred to
him that it would really have been a kindness to do so.
That same day he came to a little cabin by the beach, and his heart
filled with renewed hope as he saw this evidence of the proximity of
civilization, for he thought it but the outpost of a nearby settlement.
Had he known to whom it belonged, and that its owner was at that very
moment but a few miles inland, Nikolas Rokoff would have fled the place
as he would a pestilence. But he did not know, and so he remained for a
few days to enjoy the security and comparative comforts of the cabin.
Then he took up his northward journey once more.
In Lord Tennington’s camp preparations were going forward to build
permanent quarters, and then to send out an expedition of a few men to
the north in search of relief.
As the days had passed without bringing the longed-for succor, hope
that Jane Porter, Clayton, and Monsieur Thuran had been rescued began
to die. No one spoke of the matter longer to Professor Porter, and he
was so immersed in his scientific dreaming that he was not aware of the
elapse of time.
Occasionally he would remark that within a few days they should
certainly see a steamer drop anchor off their shore, and that then they
should all be reunited happily. Sometimes he spoke of it as a train,
and wondered if it were being delayed by snowstorms.
“If I didn’t know the dear old fellow so well by now,” Tennington
remarked to Miss Strong, “I should be quite certain that he was—er—not
quite right, don’t you know.”
“If it were not so pathetic it would be ridiculous,” said the girl,
sadly. “I, who have known him all my life, know how he worships Jane;
but to others it must seem that he is perfectly callous to her fate. It
is only that he is so absolutely impractical that he cannot conceive of
so real a thing as death unless nearly certain proof of it is thrust
upon him.”
“You’d never guess what he was about yesterday,” continued Tennington.
“I was coming in alone from a little hunt when I met him walking
rapidly along the game trail that I was following back to camp. His
hands were clasped beneath the tails of his long black coat, and his
top hat was set firmly down upon his head, as with eyes bent upon the
ground he hastened on, probably to some sudden death had I not
intercepted him.
“‘Why, where in the world are you bound, professor?’ I asked him. ‘I am
going into town, Lord Tennington,’ he said, as seriously as possible,
‘to complain to the postmaster about the rural free delivery service we
are suffering from here. Why, sir, I haven’t had a piece of mail in
weeks. There should be several letters for me from Jane. The matter
must be reported to Washington at once.’
“And would you believe it, Miss Strong,” continued Tennington, “I had
the very deuce of a job to convince the old fellow that there was not
only no rural free delivery, but no town, and that he was not even on
the same continent as Washington, nor in the same hemisphere.
“When he did realize he commenced to worry about his daughter—I think
it is the first time that he really has appreciated our position here,
or the fact that Miss Porter may not have been rescued.”
“I hate to think about it,” said the girl, “and yet I can think of
nothing else than the absent members of our party.”
“Let us hope for the best,” replied Tennington. “You yourself have set
us each a splendid example of bravery, for in a way your loss has been
the greatest.”
“Yes,” she replied; “I could have loved Jane Porter no more had she
been my own sister.”
Tennington did not show the surprise he felt. That was not at all what
he meant. He had been much with this fair daughter of Maryland since
the wreck of the _Lady Alice_, and it had recently come to him that he
had grown much more fond of her than would prove good for the peace of
his mind, for he recalled almost constantly now the confidence which
Monsieur Thuran had imparted to him that he and Miss Strong were
engaged. He wondered if, after all, Thuran had been quite accurate in
his statement. He had never seen the slightest indication on the girl’s
part of more than ordinary friendship.
“And then in Monsieur Thuran’s loss, if they are lost, you would suffer
a severe bereavement,” he ventured.
She looked up at him quickly. “Monsieur Thuran had become a very dear
friend,” she said. “I liked him very much, though I have known him but
a short time.”
“Then you were not engaged to marry him?” he blurted out.
“Heavens, no!” she cried. “I did not care for him at all in that way.”
There was something that Lord Tennington wanted to say to Hazel
Strong—he wanted very badly to say it, and to say it at once; but
somehow the words stuck in his throat. He started lamely a couple of
times, cleared his throat, became red in the face, and finally ended by
remarking that he hoped the cabins would be finished before the rainy
season commenced.
But, though he did not know it, he had conveyed to the girl the very
message he intended, and it left her happy—happier than she had ever
before been in all her life.
Just then further conversation was interrupted by the sight of a
strange and terrible-looking figure which emerged from the jungle just
south of the camp. Tennington and the girl saw it at the same time. The
Englishman reached for his revolver, but when the half-naked, bearded
creature called his name aloud and came running toward them he dropped
his hand and advanced to meet it.
None would have recognized in the filthy, emaciated creature, covered
by a single garment of small skins, the immaculate Monsieur Thuran the
party had last seen upon the deck of the _Lady Alice_.
Before the other members of the little community were apprised of his
presence Tennington and Miss Strong questioned him regarding the other
occupants of the missing boat.
“They are all dead,” replied Thuran. “The three sailors died before we
made land. Miss Porter was carried off into the jungle by some wild
animal while I was lying delirious with fever. Clayton died of the same
fever but a few days since. And to think that all this time we have
been separated by but a few miles—scarcely a day’s march. It is
terrible!”
How long Jane Porter lay in the darkness of the vault beneath the
temple in the ancient city of Opar she did not know. For a time she was
delirious with fever, but after this passed she commenced slowly to
regain her strength. Every day the woman who brought her food beckoned
to her to arise, but for many days the girl could only shake her head
to indicate that she was too weak.
But eventually she was able to gain her feet, and then to stagger a few
steps by supporting herself with one hand upon the wall. Her captors
now watched her with increasing interest. The day was approaching, and
the victim was gaining in strength.
Presently the day came, and a young woman whom Jane Porter had not seen
before came with several others to her dungeon. Here some sort of
ceremony was performed—that it was of a religious nature the girl was
sure, and so she took new heart, and rejoiced that she had fallen among
people upon whom the refining and softening influences of religion
evidently had fallen. They would treat her humanely—of that she was now
quite sure.
And so when they led her from her dungeon, through long, dark
corridors, and up a flight of concrete steps to a brilliant courtyard,
she went willingly, even gladly—for was she not among the servants of
God? It might be, of course, that their interpretation of the supreme
being differed from her own, but that they owned a god was sufficient
evidence to her that they were kind and good.
But when she saw a stone altar in the center of the courtyard, and
dark-brown stains upon it and the nearby concrete of the floor, she
began to wonder and to doubt. And as they stooped and bound her ankles,
and secured her wrists behind her, her doubts were turned to fear. A
moment later, as she was lifted and placed supine across the altar’s
top, hope left her entirely, and she trembled in an agony of fright.
During the grotesque dance of the votaries which followed, she lay
frozen in horror, nor did she require the sight of the thin blade in
the hands of the high priestess as it rose slowly above her to
enlighten her further as to her doom.
As the hand began its descent, Jane Porter closed her eyes and sent up
a silent prayer to the Maker she was so soon to face—then she succumbed
to the strain upon her tired nerves, and swooned.
Day and night Tarzan of the Apes raced through the primeval forest
toward the ruined city in which he was positive the woman he loved lay
either a prisoner or dead.
In a day and a night he covered the same distance that the fifty
frightful men had taken the better part of a week to traverse, for
Tarzan of the Apes traveled along the middle terrace high above the
tangled obstacles that impede progress upon the ground.
The story the young bull ape had told made it clear to him that the
girl captive had been Jane Porter, for there was not another small
white “she” in all the jungle. The “bulls” he had recognized from the
ape’s crude description as the grotesque parodies upon humanity who
inhabit the ruins of Opar. And the girl’s fate he could picture as
plainly as though he were an eyewitness to it. When they would lay her
across that trim altar he could not guess, but that her dear, frail
body would eventually find its way there he was confident.
But, finally, after what seemed long ages to the impatient ape-man, he
topped the barrier cliffs that hemmed the desolate valley, and below
him lay the grim and awful ruins of the now hideous city of Opar. At a
rapid trot he started across the dry and dusty, bowlder-strewn ground
toward the goal of his desires.
Would he be in time to rescue? He hoped against hope. At least he could
be revenged, and in his wrath it seemed to him that he was equal to the
task of wiping out the entire population of that terrible city. It was
nearly noon when he reached the great bowlder at the top of which
terminated the secret passage to the pits beneath the city. Like a cat
he scaled the precipitous sides of the frowning granite _kopje_. A
moment later he was running through the darkness of the long, straight
tunnel that led to the treasure vault. Through this he passed, then on
and on until at last he came to the well-like shaft upon the opposite
side of which lay the dungeon with the false wall.
As he paused a moment upon the brink of the well a faint sound came to
him through the opening above. His quick ears caught and translated
it—it was the dance of death that preceded a sacrifice, and the
singsong ritual of the high priestess. He could even recognize the
woman’s voice. Could it be that the ceremony marked the very thing he
had so hastened to prevent? A wave of horror swept over him. Was he,
after all, to be just a moment too late? Like a frightened deer he
leaped across the narrow chasm to the continuation of the passage
beyond. At the false wall he tore like one possessed to demolish the
barrier that confronted him—with giant muscles he forced the opening,
thrusting his head and shoulders through the first small hole he made,
and carrying the balance of the wall with him, to clatter resoundingly
upon the cement floor of the dungeon.
With a single leap he cleared the length of the chamber and threw
himself against the ancient door. But here he stopped. The mighty bars
upon the other side were proof even against such muscles as his. It
needed but a moment’s effort to convince him of the futility of
endeavoring to force that impregnable barrier. There was but one other
way, and that led back through the long tunnels to the bowlder a mile
beyond the city’s walls, and then back across the open as he had come
to the city first with his Waziri.
He realized that to retrace his steps and enter the city from above
ground would mean that he would be too late to save the girl, if it
were indeed she who lay upon the sacrificial altar above him. But there
seemed no other way, and so he turned and ran swiftly back into the
passageway beyond the broken wall. At the well he heard again the
monotonous voice of the high priestess, and, as he glanced aloft, the
opening, twenty feet above, seemed so near that he was tempted to leap
for it in a mad endeavor to reach the inner courtyard that lay so near.
If he could but get one end of his grass rope caught upon some
projection at the top of that tantalizing aperture! In the instant’s
pause and thought an idea occurred to him. He would attempt it. Turning
back to the tumbled wall, he seized one of the large, flat slabs that
had composed it. Hastily making one end of his rope fast to the piece
of granite, he returned to the shaft, and, coiling the balance of the
rope on the floor beside him, the ape-man took the heavy slab in both
hands, and, swinging it several times to get the distance and the
direction fixed, he let the weight fly up at a slight angle, so that,
instead of falling straight back into the shaft again, it grazed the
far edge, tumbling over into the court beyond.
Tarzan dragged for a moment upon the slack end of the rope until he
felt that the stone was lodged with fair security at the shaft’s top,
then he swung out over the black depths beneath. The moment his full
weight came upon the rope he felt it slip from above. He waited there
in awful suspense as it dropped in little jerks, inch by inch. The
stone was being dragged up the outside of the masonry surrounding the
top of the shaft—would it catch at the very edge, or would his weight
drag it over to fall upon him as he hurtled into the unknown depths
below?