Once again Tarzan of the Apes was speeding onward, this time even
more swiftly than before, for he was goaded now by a nameless fear,
more product of intuition than of reason. Even as the beasts,
Tarzan of the Apes seemed to possess a sixth sense. Long before he
reached the bungalow, he had almost pictured the scene that finally
broke upon his view.
Silent and deserted was the vine-covered cottage. Smoldering embers
marked the site of his great barns. Gone were the thatched huts of
his sturdy retainers, empty the fields, the pastures, and corrals.
Here and there vultures rose and circled above the carcasses of
men and beasts.
It was with a feeling as nearly akin to terror as he ever had
experienced that the ape-man finally forced himself to enter his
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.
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