Тарзан, приёмыш обезьян
The Village of Torture
Nighthadfallenandhetraveledhighalongtheupperterracewherethegorgeoustropicmoonlightedthedizzypathwaythroughthegentlyundulatingbranchesofthetreetops.
Presentlyhecaughtthereflectionofadistantblaze.Itlaytotherightofhispath.Itmustbethelightfromthecampfirethetwomenhadbuiltbeforetheywereattacked—Tarzanknewnothingofthepresenceofthesailors.
SosurewasTarzanofhisjungleknowledgethathedidnotturnfromhiscourse,butpassedtheglareatadistanceofahalfmile.ItwasthecampfireoftheFrenchmen.
InafewminutesmoreTarzanswungintothetreesaboveMbonga’svillage.Ah,hewasnotquitetoolate!Or,washe?Hecouldnottell.Thefigureatthestakewasverystill,yettheblackwarriorswerebutprickingit.
Tarzanknewtheircustoms.Thedeathblowhadnotbeenstruck.Hecouldtellalmosttoaminutehowfarthedancehadgone.
InanotherinstantMbonga’sknifewouldseveroneofthevictim’sears—thatwouldmarkthebeginningoftheend,forveryshortlyafteronlyawrithingmassofmutilatedfleshwouldremain.
Therewouldstillbelifeinit,butdeaththenwouldbetheonlycharityitcraved.
Thestakestoodfortyfeetfromthenearesttree.Tarzancoiledhisrope.Thenthererosesuddenlyabovethefiendishcriesofthedancingdemonstheawfulchallengeoftheape-man.
Thedancershaltedasthoughturnedtostone.
