Selecting his most formidable antagonist, the fellow with the
bludgeon, Tarzan charged full upon him, dodging the falling weapon,
and catching the man a terrific blow on the point of the chin that
felled him in his tracks.

Then he turned upon the others. This was sport. He was reveling
in the joy of battle and the lust of blood. As though it had been
but a brittle shell, to break at the least rough usage, the thin
veneer of his civilization fell from him, and the ten burly villains
found themselves penned in a small room with a wild and savage
beast, against whose steel muscles their puny strength was less
than futile.

At the end of the corridor without stood Rokoff, waiting the
outcome of the affair. He wished to be sure that Tarzan was dead
before he left, but it was not a part of his plan to be one of
those within the room when the murder occurred.

The woman still stood where she had when Tarzan entered, but her
face had undergone a number of changes with the few minutes which
had elapsed. From the semblance of distress which it had worn when
Tarzan first saw it, it had changed to one of craftiness as he had
wheeled to meet the attack from behind; but the change Tarzan had
not seen.

Later an expression of surprise and then one of horror superseded
the others. And who may wonder. For the immaculate gentleman her
cries had lured to what was to have been his death had been suddenly
metamorphosed into a demon of revenge. Instead of soft muscles and
a weak resistance, she was looking upon a veritable Hercules gone