Tarzan, Lord of the Jungle

His great bulk swaying to and fro as he threw his weight first upon one side and then upon the other, Tantor the elephant lolled in the shade of the father of forests. Almost omnipotent, he, in the realm of his people. Dango, Sheeta, even Numa the mighty were as naught to the pachyderm. For a hundred years he had come and gone up and down the land that had trembled to the comings and the goings of his forebears for countless ages.

In peace he had lived with Dango the hyena, Sheeta the leopard and Numa the lion. Man alone had made war upon him. Man, who holds the unique distinction among created things of making war on all living creatures, even to his own kind. Man, the ruthless; man, the pitiless; man, the most hated living organism that Nature has evolved.

Always during the long hundred years of his life, Tantor had known man. There had been black men, always. Big black warriors with spears and arrows, little black warriors, swart Arabs with crude muskets and white men with powerful express rifles and elephant guns. The white men had been the last to come and were the worst. Yet Tantor did not hate men⁠—not even white men. Hate, vengeance, envy, avarice, lust are a few of the delightful emotions reserved exclusively for Nature’s noblest work⁠—the lower animals do not know them. Neither do they know fear as man knows it, but rather a certain bold caution that sends the antelope and the zebra, watchful and wary, to the water hole with the lion.

Into the darkness of the hejra crept Tollog, the sheik’s brother; but Tarzan, lying with an ear to the ground, had heard him approaching from the moment that he had left the beyt of Ibn Jad. Tarzan heard other sounds as well and, as he interpreted these others, he interpreted the stealthy approach of Tollog and was convinced when the footsteps turned into the tent where he lay⁠—convinced of the purpose of his visitor. For what purpose but the taking of his life would a Beduin visit Tarzan at this hour of the night?

As Tollog, groping in the dark, entered the tent Tarzan sat erect and again there smote upon the ears of the Beduin the horrid cry that had disturbed the menzil earlier in the evening, but this time it arose in the very hejra in which Tollog stood.

The Beduin halted, aghast. “Ullah!” he cried, stepping back. “What beast is there? Nasrany! Art thou being attacked?”

Others in the camp were awakened, but none ventured forth to investigate. Tarzan smiled and remained silent.

“Nasrany!” repeated Tollog, but there was no reply.

Cautiously, his knife ready in his hand, the Beduin backed from the hejra. He listened but heard no sound from within. Running quickly to his own beyt he made a light in a paper lantern and hastened back to the hejra, and this time he carried his musket and it was at full cock. Peering within, the lantern held above his head, Tollog saw the ape-man sitting upon the ground looking at him. There was no wild beast! Then the Beduin understood.

“Billah! It wast thou, Nasrany, who made the fearful cries.”

Still under the depressing influence of the cross, Blake passed between the two boulders; and the instant that he had passed them a man stepped out behind him and another in front. They were negroes, stalwart, fine-featured fellows, and in themselves nothing to arouse wonder or surprise. Blake had expected to meet negroes in Africa; but not negroes wearing elaborately decorated leathern jerkins upon the breasts of which red crosses were emblazoned, close fitting nether garments and sandals held by doeskin thongs, cross gartered halfway to their knees; not negroes wearing close fitting bassinets of leopard skin that fitted their heads closely and reached to below their ears; not negroes armed with two handed broad swords and elaborately tipped pikes.

Blake was acutely aware of the pike tips as there was one pressing against his belly and another in the small of his back.

“Who be ye?” demanded the negro that faced Blake.

Had the man addressed him in Greek Blake would have been no more surprised than he was by the incongruity of this archaic form of speech falling from the lips of a twentieth century central African black. He was too dumbfounded for an instant to reply.

“Doubtless the fellow be a Saracen, Paul!” said the black behind Blake, “and understands not what thou sayest⁠—a spy, perchance.”

“Nay, Peter Wiggs, as my name be Paul Bodkin he be no infidel⁠—that I know of mine own good eyes.”

“Whatsoe’er he be it is for ye to fetch him before the captain of the gate who will question him, Paul Bodkin.”

Blake’s smile faded⁠—too much was too much. “Cut the comedy, young fellow,” he drawled in his slow way. “Where’s the director?”

“Director? Forsooth, I know not what thou meanest.”

“Yes you don’t!” snapped Blake, with fine sarcasm. “But let me tell you right off the bat that no seven-fifty a day extra can pull anything like that with me!”

“ ’Od’s blud, fellow! I ken not the meaning of all the words, but I mislike thy tone. It savors o’er much of insult to fall sweetly upon the ears of Richard Montmorency.”

“Be yourself,” advised Blake. “If the director isn’t handy send for the assistant director, or the camera man⁠—even the continuity writer may have more sense than you seem to have.”

“Be myself? And who thinkest thee I would be other than Richard Montmorency, a noble knight of Nimmr.”

Blake shook his head in despair, then he turned to the soldiers who were standing about listening to the conversation. He thought some of them would be grinning at the joke that was being played on him, but he saw only solemn, serious faces.

“Look here,” he said, addressing Paul Bodkin, “don’t any of you know where the director is?”

“ ‘Director’?” repeated Bodkin, shaking his head. “There be none in Nimmr thus y-clept, nay, nor in all the Valley of the Sepulcher that I wot.”

“I’m sorry,” said Blake, “the mistake is mine; but if there is no director there must be a keeper. May I see him?”

“Ah, keeper!” cried Bodkin, his face lighting with understanding. “Sir Richard is the keeper.”

Again the trumpet sounded and the four knights rode slowly back to opposite ends of the lists and the principals waited for the final signal to engage. Blake disengaged his arm from the leather loop of his buckler and tossed the shield upon the ground.

Edward looked at him aghast. “My Lord knight!” he cried. “Art ill? Art fainting? Didst drop thy buckler?” and he snatched it up and held it aloft to Blake, though he knew full well that his eyes had not deceived him and that his master had cast aside his only protection.

To the horrified Edward there seemed but one explanation and that his loyalty would not permit him to entertain for an instant⁠—that Blake was preparing to dismount and refuse to meet Sir Malud, giving the latter the victory by default and assuring himself of the contempt and ridicule of all Nimmr.

He ran to Richard who had not seen Blake’s act. “Sir Richard! Sir Richard!” he cried in a hoarse whisper. “Some terrible affliction hath befallen Sir James!”

“Hey, what?” exclaimed Richard. “What meaneth thou lad?”

“He has cast aside his buckler,” cried the youth. “He must be stricken sore ill, for it cannot be that otherwise he would refuse combat.”

Richard spurred to Blake’s side. “Hast gone mad, man?” he demanded. “Thou canst not refuse the encounter now unless thou wouldst bring dishonor upon thy friends!”

“Where did you get that line?” demanded Blake. “Who said I was going to quit?”