Tarzan was not particularly interested in the men, however,
so he sought the other window. There was the girl. How
beautiful her features! How delicate her snowy skin!
She was writing at Tarzan's own table beneath the window.
Upon a pile of grasses at the far side of the room lay the
Negress asleep.
For an hour Tarzan feasted his eyes upon her while she
wrote. How he longed to speak to her, but he dared not
attempt it, for he was convinced that, like the young man, she
would not understand him, and he feared, too, that he might
frighten her away.
At length she arose, leaving her manuscript upon the table.
She went to the bed upon which had been spread several layers
of soft grasses. These she rearranged.
Then she loosened the soft mass of golden hair which
crowned her head. Like a shimmering waterfall turned to
burnished metal by a dying sun it fell about her oval face;
in waving lines, below her waist it tumbled.
Tarzan was spellbound. Then she extinguished the lamp
and all within the cabin was wrapped in Cimmerian darkness.
Still Tarzan watched. Creeping close beneath the window
he waited, listening, for half an hour. At last he was
rewarded by the sounds of the regular breathing within which
denotes sleep.
Cautiously he intruded his hand between the meshes of the
lattice until his whole arm was within the cabin. Carefully he
felt upon the desk.
Pages:
191
192
193
194
195
196
197
198
199
200
201
202
203
204
205
206
207
208
209
210
211
212
213
214
215