over rolled Numa, the lion, clawing and biting at the air, roaring
and growling horribly in savage attempt to reach the thing upon
its back. More than once was Tarzan almost brushed from his hold.
He was battered and bruised and covered with blood from Numa and dirt
from the trail, yet not for an instant did he lessen the ferocity
of his mad attack nor his grim hold upon the back of his antagonist.
To have loosened for an instant his grip there, would have been to
bring him within reach of those tearing talons or rending fangs,
and have ended forever the grim career of this jungle-bred English
lord. Where he had fallen beneath the spring of the lion the
witch-doctor lay, torn and bleeding, unable to drag himself away
and watched the terrific battle between these two lords of the
jungle. His sunken eyes glittered and his wrinkled lips moved over
toothless gums as he mumbled weird incantations to the demons of
his cult.

For a time he felt no doubt as to the outcome--the strange white
man must certainly succumb to terrible Simba--whoever heard of a
lone man armed only with a knife slaying so mighty a beast! Yet
presently the old black man's eyes went wider and he commenced to
have his doubts and misgivings. What wonderful sort of creature was
this that battled with Simba and held his own despite the mighty
muscles of the king of beasts and slowly there dawned in those
sunken eyes, gleaming so brightly from the scarred and wrinkled
face, the light of a dawning recollection. Gropingly backward into
the past reached the fingers of memory, until at last they seized
upon a faint picture, faded and yellow with the passing years. It
was the picture of a lithe, white-skinned youth swinging through
the trees in company with a band of huge apes, and the old eyes
blinked and a great fear came into them--the superstitious fear of