One--twice--thrice that terrifying cry rang out across the
teeming solitude of that unspeakably quick, yet unthinkably
dead, world.
Then, crouching, Kerchak slunk noiselessly around the
open circle, veering far away from the dead body lying before
the altar-drum, but, as he passed, keeping his little,
fierce, wicked, red eyes upon the corpse.
Another male then sprang into the arena, and, repeating
the horrid cries of his king, followed stealthily in his wake.
Another and another followed in quick succession until the
jungle reverberated with the now almost ceaseless notes of
their bloodthirsty screams.
It was the challenge and the hunt.
When all the adult males had joined in the thin line of
circling dancers the attack commenced.
Kerchak, seizing a huge club from the pile which lay at
hand for the purpose, rushed furiously upon the dead ape,
dealing the corpse a terrific blow, at the same time emitting
the growls and snarls of combat. The din of the drum was
now increased, as well as the frequency of the blows, and the
warriors, as each approached the victim of the hunt and
delivered his bludgeon blow, joined in the mad whirl of the
Death Dance.
Tarzan was one of the wild, leaping horde. His brown,
sweat-streaked, muscular body, glistening in the moonlight,
shone supple and graceful among the uncouth, awkward,
hairy brutes about him.
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