LITMIR.BIZ

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A smile of contentment softened his strong face as he thought of that day of days that he had had alone with Jane Porter in the heart of his primeval forest.

      Presently his reminiscences were broken in upon by the stopping of the car—they were at their destination. Tarzan’s mind returned to the affairs of the moment. He knew that he was about to die, but there was no fear of death in him. To a denizen of the cruel jungle death is a commonplace. The first law of nature compels them to cling tenaciously to life—to fight for it; but it does not teach them to fear death.

      D’Arnot and Tarzan were first upon the field of honor. A moment later De Coude, Monsieur Flaubert, and a third gentleman arrived. The last was introduced to D’Arnot and Tarzan; he was a physician.

      D’Arnot and Monsieur Flaubert spoke together in whispers for a brief time. The Count de Coude and Tarzan stood apart at opposite sides of the field. Presently the seconds summoned them. D’Arnot and Monsieur Flaubert had examined both pistols. The two men who were to face each other a moment later stood silently while Monsieur Flaubert recited the conditions they were to observe.

      They were to stand back to back. At a signal from Monsieur Flaubert they were to walk in opposite directions, their pistols hanging by their sides. When each had proceeded ten paces D’Arnot was to give the final signal—then they were to turn and fire at will until one fell, or each had expended the three shots allowed.

      While Monsieur Flaubert spoke Tarzan selected a cigarette from his case, and lighted it. De Coude was the personification of coolness—was he not the best shot in France?

      Presently Monsieur Flaubert nodded to D’Arnot, and each man placed his principal in position.

      “Are you quite ready, gentlemen?” asked Monsieur Flaubert.

      “Quite,” replied De Coude.

      Tarzan nodded. Monsieur Flaubert gave the signal. He and D’Arnot stepped back a few paces to be out of the line of fire as the men paced slowly apart. Six! Seven! Eight! There were tears in D’Arnot’s eyes. He loved Tarzan very much. Nine! Another pace, and the poor lieutenant gave the signal he so hated to give. To him it sounded the doom of his best friend.

      Quickly De Coude wheeled and fired. Tarzan gave a little start. His pistol still dangled at his side. De Coude hesitated, as though waiting to see his antagonist crumple to the ground. The Frenchman was too experienced a marksman not to know that he had scored a hit. Still Tarzan made no move to raise his pistol. De Coude fired once more, but the attitude of the ape-man—the utter indifference that was so apparent in every line of the nonchalant ease of his giant figure, and the even unruffled puffing of his cigarette—had disconcerted the best marksman in France. This time Tarzan did not start, but again De Coude knew that he had hit.

      Suddenly the explanation leaped to his mind—his antagonist was coolly taking these terrible chances in the hope that he would receive no staggering wound from any of De Coude’s three shots. Then he would take his own time about shooting De Coude down deliberately, coolly, and in cold blood. A little shiver ran up the Frenchman’s spine. It was fiendish—diabolical. What manner of creature was this that could stand complacently with two bullets in him, waiting for the third?

      And so De Coude took careful aim this time, but his nerve was gone, and he made a clean miss. Not once had Tarzan raised his pistol hand from where it hung beside his leg.

      For a moment the two stood looking straight into each other’s eyes. On Tarzan’s face was a pathetic expression of disappointment. On De Coude’s a rapidly growing expression of horror—yes, of terror.

      He could endure it no longer.

      “Mother of God! Monsieur—shoot!” he screamed.

      But Tarzan did not raise his pistol. Instead, he advanced toward De Coude, and when D’Arnot and Monsieur Flaubert, misinterpreting his intention, would have rushed between them, he raised his left hand in a sign of remonstrance.

      “Do not fear,” he said to them, “I shall not harm him.”

      It was most unusual, but they halted. Tarzan advanced until he was quite close to De Coude.

      “There must have been something wrong with monsieur’s pistol,” he said. “Or monsieur is unstrung. Take mine, monsieur, and try again,” and Tarzan offered his pistol, butt foremost, to the astonished De Coude.

      “MON DIEU, monsieur!” cried the latter. “Are you mad?”

      “No, my friend,” replied the ape-man; “but I deserve to die. It is the only way in which I may atone for the wrong I have done a very good woman. Take my pistol and do as I bid.”

      “It would be murder,” replied De Coude. “But what wrong did you do my wife? She swore to me that—”

      “I do not mean that,” said Tarzan quickly. “You saw all the wrong that passed between us. But that was enough to cast a shadow upon her name, and to ruin the happiness of a man against whom I had no enmity. The fault was all mine, and so I hoped to die for it this morning. I am disappointed that monsieur is not so wonderful a marksman as I had been led to believe.”

      “You say that the fault was all yours?” asked De Coude eagerly.

      “All mine, monsieur. Your wife is a very pure woman. She loves only you. The fault that you saw was all mine. The thing that brought me there was no fault of either the Countess de Coude or myself. Here is a paper which will quite positively demonstrate that,” and Tarzan drew from his pocket the statement Rokoff had written and signed.

      De Coude took it and read. D’Arnot and Monsieur Flaubert had drawn near. They were interested spectators of this strange ending of a strange duel. None spoke until De Coude had quite finished, then he looked up at Tarzan.

      “You are a very brave and chivalrous gentleman,” he said. “I thank God that I did not kill you.”

      De Coude was a Frenchman. Frenchmen are impulsive. He threw his arms about Tarzan and embraced him. Monsieur Flaubert embraced D’Arnot. There was no one to embrace the doctor. So possibly it was pique which prompted him to interfere, and demand that he be permitted to dress Tarzan’s wounds.

      “This gentleman was hit once at least,” he said. “Possibly thrice.”

      “Twice,” said Tarzan. “Once in the left shoulder, and again in the left side—both flesh wounds, I think.” But the doctor insisted upon stretching him upon the sward, and tinkering with him until the wounds were cleansed and the flow of blood checked.

      One result of the duel was that they all rode back to Paris together in D’Arnot’s car, the best of friends. De Coude was so relieved to have had this double assurance of his wife’s loyalty that he felt no rancor at all toward Tarzan. It is true that the latter had assumed much more of the fault than was rightly his, but if he lied a little he may be excused, for he lied in the service of a woman, and he lied like a gentleman.

      The ape-man was confined to his bed for several days. He felt that it was foolish and unnecessary, but the doctor and D’Arnot took the matter so to heart that he gave in to please them, though it made him laugh to think of it.

      “It is droll,” he said to D’Arnot. “To lie abed because of a pin prick! Why, when Bolgani, the king gorilla, tore me almost to pieces, while I was still but a little boy, did I have a nice soft bed to lie on? No, only the damp, rotting vegetation of the jungle. Hidden beneath some friendly bush I lay for days and weeks with only Kala to nurse me—poor, faithful Kala, who kept the insects from my wounds and warned off the beasts of prey.

      “When I called for water she brought it to me in her own mouth—the only way she knew to carry it. There was no sterilized gauze, there was no antiseptic bandage—there was nothing that would not have driven our dear doctor mad to have seen. Yet I recovered—recovered to lie in bed because of a tiny scratch that one of the jungle folk would scarce realize unless it were upon the end of his nose.”

      But the time was soon over, and before he realized it Tarzan found himself abroad again. Several times De Coude had called,

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