chest, Jane Clayton turned
away in horror; but not so Tarzan of the Apes. A cold smile of
satisfaction touched his lips. The scar upon his forehead that had
burned scarlet faded to the normal hue of his tanned skin and
disappeared.

Rokoff fought furiously but futilely against the growling, rending fate
that had overtaken him. For all his countless crimes he was punished
in the brief moment of the hideous death that claimed him at the last.

After his struggles ceased Tarzan approached, at Jane's suggestion, to
wrest the body from the panther and give what remained of it decent
human burial; but the great cat rose snarling above its kill,
threatening even the master it loved in its savage way, so that rather
than kill his friend of the jungle, Tarzan was forced to relinquish his
intentions.

All that night Sheeta, the panther, crouched upon the grisly thing that
had been Nikolas Rokoff. The bridge of the Kincaid was slippery with
blood. Beneath the brilliant tropic moon the great beast feasted
until, when the sun rose the following morning, there remained of
Tarzan's great enemy only gnawed and broken bones.

Of the Russian's party, all were accounted for except Paulvitch. Four
were prisoners in the Kincaid's forecastle. The rest were dead.

With these men Tarzan got up steam upon the vessel, and with the
knowledge of the mate, who happened to be one of those surviving, he
planned to set out in quest of Jungle Island; but as the morning dawned
there came with it a heavy gale from the west which raised a sea into
which the mate of the Kincaid dared not venture. All that day the ship
lay within the shelter of the mouth of the river; for, though night
witnessed a lessening of the wind, it was thought safer to wait for
daylight before attempting the navigation of the winding channel to the
sea.

Upon the deck of the steamer the pack wandered without let or hindrance
by day, for they had soon learned through Tarzan and Mugambi that they
must harm no one upon the Kincaid; but at night they were confined
below.

Tarzan's joy had been unbounded when he learned from his wife that the
little child who had died in the village of M'ganwazam was not their
son. Who the baby could have been, or what had become of their own,
they could not imagine, and as both Rokoff and Paulvitch were gone,
there was no way of discovering.

There was, however, a certain sense of relief in the knowledge that
they might yet hope.