dead; but he was not dead. At length he stirred. His eyes opened
upon the utter darkness of the room. He raised his hand to his
head and brought it away sticky with clotted blood. He sniffed at
his fingers, as a wild beast might sniff at the life-blood upon a
wounded paw.

Slowly he rose to a sitting posture--listening. No sound reached
to the buried depths of his sepulcher. He staggered to his feet,
and groped his way about among the tiers of ingots. What was he?
Where was he? His head ached; but otherwise he felt no ill effects
from the blow that had felled him. The accident he did not recall,
nor did he recall aught of what had led up to it.

He let his hands grope unfamiliarly over his limbs, his torso, and
his head. He felt of the quiver at his back, the knife in his loin
cloth. Something struggled for recognition within his brain. Ah!
he had it. There was something missing. He crawled about upon the
floor, feeling with his hands for the thing that instinct warned
him was gone. At last he found it--the heavy war spear that in past
years had formed so important a feature of his daily life, almost
of his very existence, so inseparably had it been connected with
his every action since the long-gone day that he had wrested his
first spear from the body of a black victim of his savage training.

Tarzan was sure that there was another and more lovely world than
that which was confined to the darkness of the four stone walls
surrounding him. He continued his search and at last found the
doorway leading inward beneath the city and the temple. This he
followed, most incautiously. He came to the stone steps leading
upward to the higher level. He ascended them and continued onward