Then, dry-eyed but suffering, she rose and followed the Russian
through the Stygian blackness of the jungle, along the winding,
leafy corridor that led from the village of M'ganwazam, the black
cannibal, to the camp of Nikolas Rokoff, the white fiend.
Beside them, in the impenetrable thickets that fringed the path,
rising to arch above it and shut out the moon, the girl could hear
the stealthy, muffled footfalls of great beasts, and ever round
about them rose the deafening roars of hunting lions, until the
earth trembled to the mighty sound.
The porters lighted torches now and waved them upon either hand
to frighten off the beasts of prey. Rokoff urged them to greater
speed, and from the quavering note in his voice Jane Clayton knew
that he was weak from terror.
The sounds of the jungle night recalled most vividly the days
and nights that she had spent in a similar jungle with her forest
god--with the fearless and unconquerable Tarzan of the Apes. Then
there had been no thoughts of terror, though the jungle noises were
new to her, and the roar of a lion had seemed the most awe-inspiring
sound upon the great earth.
How different would it be now if she knew that he was somewhere
there in the wilderness, seeking her! Then, indeed, would there
be that for which to live, and every reason to believe that succour
was close at hand--but he was dead! It was incredible that it
should be so.
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