In the distance were several buildings surrounded by a
strong palisade. Between them and the enclosure stretched a
cultivated field in which a number of negroes were working.
The two halted at the edge of the jungle.
Tarzan fitted his bow with a poisoned arrow, but D'Arnot
placed a hand upon his arm.
"What would you do, Tarzan?" he asked.
"They will try to kill us if they see us," replied Tarzan.
"I prefer to be the killer."
"Maybe they are friends," suggested D'Arnot.
"They are black," was Tarzan's only reply.
And again he drew back his shaft.
"You must not, Tarzan!" cried D'Arnot. "White men do
not kill wantonly. MON DIEU! but you have much to learn.
"I pity the ruffian who crosses you, my wild man, when I
take you to Paris. I will have my hands full keeping your
neck from beneath the guillotine."
Tarzan lowered his bow and smiled.
"I do not know why I should kill the blacks back there in
my jungle, yet not kill them here. Suppose Numa, the lion,
should spring out upon us, I should say, then, I presume:
Good morning, Monsieur Numa, how is Madame Numa; eh?"
"Wait until the blacks spring upon you," replied D'Arnot,
"then you may kill them. Do not assume that men are your
enemies until they prove it."
"Come," said Tarzan, "let us go and present ourselves to
be killed," and he started straight across the field, his head
high held and the tropical sun beating upon his smooth,
brown skin.
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