home. The first sight that met his eyes set the red haze of hate
and bloodlust across his vision, for there, crucified against the
wall of the living-room, was Wasimbu, giant son of the faithful
Muviro and for over a year the personal bodyguard of Lady Jane.

The overturned and shattered furniture of the room, the brown pools
of dried blood upon the floor, and prints of bloody hands on walls
and woodwork evidenced something of the frightfulness of the battle
that had been waged within the narrow confines of the apartment.
Across the baby grand piano lay the corpse of another black warrior,
while before the door of Lady Jane's boudoir were the dead bodies
of three more of the faithful Greystoke servants.

The door of this room was closed. With drooping shoulders and dull
eyes Tarzan stood gazing dumbly at the insensate panel which hid
from him what horrid secret he dared not even guess.

Slowly, with leaden feet, he moved toward the door. Gropingly his
hand reached for the knob. Thus he stood for another long minute,
and then with a sudden gesture he straightened his giant frame,
threw back his mighty shoulders and, with fearless head held high,
swung back the door and stepped across the threshold into the
room which held for him the dearest memories and associations of
his life. No change of expression crossed his grim and stern-set
features as he strode across the room and stood beside the little
couch and the inanimate form which lay face downward upon it; the
still, silent thing that had pulsed with life and youth and love.

No tear dimmed the eye of the ape-man, but the God who made him alone
could know the thoughts that passed through that still half-savage