“Down that road,” cried the frightened woman, pointing toward the south where a mighty wall of roaring flames shut out the view.
“Put these people in the other car,” shouted the stranger to Clayton. “I saw one as I drove up—and get them out of here by the north road.
“Leave my car here. If I find Miss Porter we shall need it. If I don’t, no one will need it. Do as I say,” as Clayton hesitated, and then they saw the lithe figure bound away cross the clearing toward the northwest where the forest still stood, untouched by flame.
In each rose the unaccountable feeling that a great responsibility had been raised from their shoulders; a kind of implicit confidence in the power of the stranger to save Jane if she could be saved.
“Who was that?” asked Professor Porter.
“I do not know,” replied Clayton. “He called me by name and he knew Jane, for he asked for her. And he called Esmeralda by name.”
“There was something most startlingly familiar about him,” exclaimed Mr. Philander, “And yet, bless me, I know I never saw him before.”
“Tut, tut!” cried Professor Porter. “Most remarkable! Who could it have been, and why do I feel that Jane is safe, now that he has set out in search of her?”
“I can’t tell you, Professor,” said Clayton soberly, “but I know I have the same uncanny feeling.”
“But come,” he cried, “we must get out of here ourselves, or we shall be shut off,” and the party hastened toward Clayton’s car.
When Jane turned to retrace her steps homeward, she was alarmed to note how near the smoke of the forest fire seemed, and as she hastened onward her alarm became almost a panic when she perceived that the rushing flames were rapidly forcing their way between herself and the cottage.
At length she was compelled to turn into the dense thicket and attempt to force her way to the west in an effort to circle around the flames and reach the house.
In a short time the futility of her attempt became apparent and then her one hope lay in retracing her steps to the road and flying for her life to the south toward the town.
The twenty minutes that it took her to regain the road was all that had been needed to cut off her retreat as effectually as her advance had been cut off before.
A short run down the road brought her to a horrified stand, for there before her was another wall of flame. An arm of the main conflagration had shot out a half mile south of its parent to embrace this tiny strip of road in its implacable clutches.
Jane knew that it was useless again to attempt to force her way through the undergrowth.
She had tried it once, and failed. Now she realized that it would be but a matter of minutes ere the whole space between the north and the south would be a seething mass of billowing flames.
Calmly the girl kneeled down in the dust of the roadway and prayed for strength to meet her fate bravely, and for the delivery of her father and her friends from death.
Suddenly she heard her name being called aloud through the forest:
“Jane! Jane Porter!” It rang strong and clear, but in a strange voice.
“Here!” she called in reply. “Here! In the roadway!”
Then through the branches of the trees she saw a figure swinging with the speed of a squirrel.
A veering of the wind blew a cloud of smoke about them and she could no longer see the man who was speeding toward her, but suddenly she felt a great arm about her. Then she was lifted up, and she felt the rushing of the wind and the occasional brush of a branch as she was borne along.
She opened her eyes.
Far below her lay the undergrowth and the hard earth.
About her was the waving foliage of the forest.
From tree to tree swung the giant figure which bore her, and it seemed to Jane that she was living over in a dream the experience that had been hers in that far African jungle.
Oh, if it were but the same man who had borne her so swiftly through the tangled verdure on that other day! but that was impossible! Yet who else in all the world was there with the strength and agility to do what this man was now doing?
She stole a sudden glance at the face close to hers, and then she gave a little frightened gasp. It was he!
“My forest man!” she murmured. “No, I must be delirious!”
“Yes, your man, Jane Porter. Your savage, primeval man come out of the jungle to claim his mate—the woman who ran away from him,” he added almost fiercely.
“I did not run away,” she whispered. “I would only consent to leave when they had waited a week for you to return.”
They had come to a point beyond the fire now, and he had turned back to the clearing.
Side by side they were walking toward the cottage. The wind had changed once more and the fire was burning back upon itself—another hour like that and it would be burned out.
“Why did you not return?” she asked.
“I was nursing D’Arnot. He was badly wounded.”
“Ah, I knew it!” she exclaimed.
“They said you had gone to join the blacks—that they were your people.”
He laughed.
“But you did not believe them, Jane?”
“No;—what shall I call you?” she asked. “What is your name?”
“I was Tarzan of the Apes when you first knew me,” he said.
“Tarzan of the Apes!” she cried—“and that was your note I answered when I left?”
“Yes, whose did you think it was?”
“I did not know; only that it could not be yours, for Tarzan of the Apes had written in English, and you could not understand a word of any language.”
Again he laughed.
“It is a long story, but it was I who wrote what I could not speak—and now D’Arnot has made matters worse by teaching me to speak French
