got to say?'
'Nothing,' replied the ape-man.
'Get up!' directed Lord.
Tarzan arose and stretched with the easy indifference of a lion in its own lair.
'Take his weapons,' snapped Lord; and then, half to himself and in English: 'By Jove, but he's a rum 'un.'
Then, indeed, was Tarzan interested. Here was an Englishman. There might be some reason to speak now-to ask questions.
'Who are you?' he demanded. 'What makes you think that I'm a Kaji?'
'For the same reason that you know that we are Zuli,' replied Lord. 'Because there are no other people in these mountains.' Then he turned to one of his fellows. 'Tie his hands behind his back.'
They led him then across the ridge and down the other side of the divide; but it was dark now, and Tarzan saw nothing of the country through which they passed. He knew that they followed a well worn trail that often dropped precipitously down the side of a rocky gorge until it reached a gentler descent and wound tortuously as though following the meanderings of the stream that splashed or purled or gurgled at their right.
It was very dark in the gorge; but at length they came out into open, level country; and there it was lighter; though still no landmarks were visible to give the ape-man a suggestion of the terrain of this unfamiliar land.
A dim, flickering light showed far ahead. For half an hour they approached it before its closer aspect explained it. Then Tarzan saw that it was from an open fire burning behind the stockade of a village.
As they approached the gates, Lord halloed; and when he had identified himself they were admitted, and Tarzan found himself in a village of stone huts thatched with grass. The light from the fire burning in the center of the main street revealed only a portion of the village, which evidently was of considerable size; the rest was lost in the shadows beyond the limit of the firelight.
Before him, built directly across the principal avenue, loomed a large two-storied stone building. At the village gate were several women garbed and armed similarly to his captors. In the none-too-brilliant light of the fire they appeared to be white women; and there were others, like them, lounging in the doorways of huts or about the fire. Among them were a number of white men; and all of them, but especially the women, evinced considerable interest in Tarzan as Lord led him through the village.
'Ai, Kaji!' they yelled at him. 'You will soon be dead, Kaji.'
'It is too bad he is a Kaji,' shouted one woman. 'He would make a fine husband.'
'Perhaps Woora will give him to you,' bantered another, 'when he gets through with him.'
'He will be no good for a husband then. I do not want lion meat for a husband.'
'I hope Woora feeds him to the lions alive. We have had no good sport since before the last rains.'
'He will not turn this one to the lions. The fellow has too good a head. He looks as though he might have brains, and Woora never wastes good brains on the lions.'
Through this barrage of comment, Lord led his captive to the entrance to the big building that dominated the village. At its portals were a dozen warrior-women, barring entrance. One of them advanced to meet Lord, the point of her spear dropped to the level of the man's abdomen.
Lord halted. 'Tell Woora that we bring a Kaji prisoner,' he said.
The woman turned to one of her warriors. 'Tell Woora that Lord brings a Kaji prisoner,' she directed; then her eyes travelled over the ape-man appraisingly.
'A good specimen, eh?' said Lord. 'What a fine mate he'd make for you, Lorro.'
The woman spat reflectively. 'M-m-m, yes,' she agreed; 'he has good conformation, but he is a little too dark. Now, if one were sure he had nothing but white blood, he'd be well worth fighting for. Do you suppose he's all white? But what's the difference? He's a Kaji, and that's the end of him.'
Since his capture Tarzan had spoken only a few words, and these in the Gallic dialect. He had not denied that he was a Kaji for the same reason that he had made no effort to escape: curiosity prompted him to learn more of the Zuli-curiosity and the hope that he might learn something of advantage from these enemies of the Kaji that would aid him in freeing the two Americans and their companions from captivity and releasing them permanently from the malign power of Mafka.
As he waited before the entrance to the palace of Woora he decided that he was rather enjoying the adventure. The frank appraisal of Lorro amused him. The idea of a woman fighting for possession of him appealed to his sense of humor. At the time he did not know exactly what the woman's words connoted, but he made a shrewd guess based on what Wood had told him of the customs of the Kaji.
Indifferently he appraised the woman. She might have been an octoroon, or she might have been a white woman with a coat of tan. Her features were not Negroid. Except for her dark hair she might have passed easily for a Scandinavian. She was a well-formed woman of about thirty, clean limbed and with the muscular contours of an athlete rendered graceful by femininity. Her features were good, and by any civilized standards she would have been accounted a handsome woman.
The ape-man's reflections upon the subject were interrupted by the return of the warrior Lorro had sent to advise Woora of Lord's return with a prisoner.
'Lord is to take the Kaji to Woora,' she announced. 'See that the prisoner bears no weapons, that his hands are tied behind him, and that a strong guard accompanies him and Lord-a guard of women.'
With six of her warriors, Lorro escorted Lord and his prisoner into the palace, a palace only by virtue of its being occupied by a ruler-a palace by courtesy, one might say.
They entered a gloomy hall lighted dimly by a burning wick in a shallow pottery dish, a primitive cresset that gave forth more soot than light. Upon either side of the corridor were doorways, across most of which were drawn hangings fashioned from the pelts of animals, mostly buffaloes.
One uncovered doorway revealed a chamber in which a number of warrior-women were congregated. Some lay on low, skin-covered cots; others squatted in a circle upon the floor intent upon some game they were playing. The walls of the room were hung with spears and shields and bows and arrows. It was evidently a guard-room. Just beyond it, the corridor ended before a massive door guarded by two warriors.
It was evident that the guards were expecting the party and had received their instructions, for as they approached the doors were swung open for them to enter.
Tarzan saw before him a large room at the far end of which a figure was seated upon a dais. Two score or more of smoking cressets lighted the interior, revealing walls hung with a strange array of skins, weapons, rugs, silks, calicoes –a veritable museum, Tarzan conjectured, of the loot of many a safari; but by far the most outstanding and impressive feature of the decorations was the frieze of human heads that encircled the chamber- the mummified heads of women, hanging by their long hair, while from the smoke-darkened beams of the ceiling depended a hundred more.
These things the eyes of the ape-man took in in a sweeping glance; then they returned to the dais and the figure upon it. A score of women warriors flanked the dais where the lone figure sat upon a huge throne chair.
At first glance Tarzan saw only an enormous head thatched with scraggly grey hair; and then, below the head, a shrivelled body that was mostly abdomen-a hideously repulsive figure, naked but for a loin cloth. The skin of the face and head were drawn like yellow parchment over the bones of the skull-a living death's head in which were set two deep, glowing eyes that smouldered and burned as twin pits of Hell. And Tarzan knew that he was in the presence of Woora.
On a table directly in front of the magician rested an enormous emerald that reflected the lights from the nearer cressets and shot them back in scintillant rays that filled the apartment with their uncanny light.
But it was the man rather than the emerald that interested Tarzan. Woora was no black man, yet it was difficult to determine to what race he might belong. His skin was yellow, yet his features were not those of a Chinese. He might have been almost anything.
For several minutes he sat staring at Tarzan after the latter was halted before the dais. Gradually an expression of puzzlement and frustration overspread his face; then he spoke.
'How is my brother?' he demanded, the words squeaking like a rusty hinge.
The expression on Tarzan's face revealed no emotion, though inwardly he was greatly puzzled by the question.
'I do not know your brother,' he replied.
'What?' demanded Woora. 'You mean to tell me, Kaji, that you do not know that prince of liars, that thief,
