Adventure stories; Fantasy fiction; Tarzan (Fictitious character) -- Fiction
The dark shore loomed closer to the south as Jane Clayton, Lady
Greystoke, slid quietly over the stern of the canoe into the chill
waters of the lake. She scarcely moved other than to keep her nostrils
above the surface while the canoe was yet discernible in the last rays
of the declining moon. Then she struck out toward the southern shore.
Alone, unarmed, all but naked, in a country overrun by savage beasts
and hostile men, she yet felt for the first time in many months a
sensation of elation and relief. She was free! What if the next moment
brought death, she knew again, at least a brief instant of absolute
freedom. Her blood tingled to the almost forgotten sensation and it was
with difficulty that she restrained a glad triumphant cry as she
clambered from the quiet waters and stood upon the silent beach.
Before her loomed a forest, darkly, and from its depths came those
nameless sounds that are a part of the night life of the jungle--the
rustling of leaves in the wind, the rubbing together of contiguous
branches, the scurrying of a rodent, all magnified by the darkness to
sinister and awe-inspiring proportions; the hoot of an owl, the distant
scream of a great cat, the barking of wild dogs, attested the presence
of the myriad life she could not see--the savage life, the free life of
which she was now a part. And then there came to her, possibly for the
first time since the giant ape-man had come into her life, a fuller
realization of what the jungle meant to him, for though alone and
unprotected from its hideous dangers she yet felt its lure upon her and
an exaltation that she had not dared hope to feel again.
Ah, if that mighty mate of hers were but by her side! What utter joy
and bliss would be hers! She longed for no more than this. The parade
of cities, the comforts and luxuries of civilization held forth no
allure half as insistent as the glorious freedom of the jungle.
A lion moaned in the blackness to her right, eliciting delicious
thrills that crept along her spine. The hair at the back of her head
seemed to stand erect--yet she was unafraid. The muscles bequeathed her
by some primordial ancestor reacted instinctively to the presence of an
ancient enemy--that was all. The woman moved slowly and deliberately
toward the wood. Again the lion moaned; this time nearer. She sought a
low-hanging branch and finding it swung easily into the friendly
shelter of the tree. The long and perilous journey with Obergatz had
trained her muscles and her nerves to such unaccustomed habits. She
found a safe resting place such as Tarzan had taught her was best and
there she curled herself, thirty feet above the ground, for a night's
rest. She was cold and uncomfortable and yet she slept, for her heart
was warm with renewed hope and her tired brain had found temporary
surcease from worry.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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