His eyes protruded as
he struggled for freedom, for breath, for life.
Jane Clayton seized her husband's hands and tried to drag them from
the throat of the dying man; but Tarzan only shook his head.
"Not again," he said quietly. "Before have I permitted scoundrels
to live, only to suffer and to have you suffer for my mercy. This
time we shall make sure of one scoundrel--sure that he will never
again harm us or another," and with a sudden wrench he twisted the
neck of the perfidious mate until there was a sharp crack, and the
man's body lay limp and motionless in the ape-man's grasp. With a
gesture of disgust Tarzan tossed the corpse aside. Then he returned
to the deck, followed by Jane and the Mosula woman.
The battle there was over. Schmidt and Momulla and two others
alone remained alive of all the company of the Cowrie, for they had
found sanctuary in the forecastle. The others had died, horribly,
and as they deserved, beneath the fangs and talons of the beasts
of Tarzan, and in the morning the sun rose on a grisly sight upon
the deck of the unhappy Cowrie; but this time the blood which
stained her white planking was the blood of the guilty and not of
the innocent.
Tarzan brought forth the men who had hidden in the forecastle, and
without promises of immunity from punishment forced them to help
work the vessel--the only alternative was immediate death.
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