He was in possession again of his beloved ship, he was
flying swiftly in the direction of his comrades and his duty, and
with him was the woman he loved. The fly in the ointment, however,
was the accusation Tarzan had made against this woman. He had said
that she was a German, and a spy, and from the heights of bliss the
English officer was occasionally plunged to the depths of despair
in contemplation of the inevitable, were the ape-man's charges to
prove true. He found himself torn between sentiments of love and
honor. On the one hand he could not surrender the woman he loved
to the certain fate that must be meted out to her if she were in
truth an enemy spy, while on the other it would be equally impossible
for him as an Englishman and an officer to give her aid or protection.
The young man contented himself therefore with repeated mental
denials of her guilt. He tried to convince himself that Tarzan was
mistaken, and when he conjured upon the screen of recollection the
face of the girl behind him, he was doubly reassured that those
lines of sweet femininity and character, those clear and honest
eyes, could not belong to one of the hated alien race.
And so they sped toward the east, each wrapped in his own thoughts.
Below them they saw the dense vegetation of the jungle give place
to the scantier growth upon the hillside, and then before them
there spread the wide expanse of arid wastelands marked by the deep
scarring of the narrow gorges that long-gone rivers had cut there
in some forgotten age.
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