Stronger and stronger in his nostrils waxed the scent of the quarry; behind him came the lions and the hunters; and he knew that he must act quickly, for they were no great distance in his rear. A grim smile lighted his grey eyes as he considered the dénouement of the project he had undertaken.
Presently he saw the black running through the forest just ahead of him. The fellow was moving at a dogged trot, casting an occasional glance behind him. He was a splendidly muscled Galla, a perfect type of primitive manhood, who seemed bent upon giving the best account of himself that he might against the hopeless odds that must eventually win the game in which his life was the stake. There was neither fear nor panic in his flight, merely inflexible determination to surrender to the inevitable only as a last resort.
Tarzan was directly above the man now, and he spoke to him in the language of his people. "Take to the trees," he called down.
The black looked up, but he did not stop. "Who are you?" he demanded.
"An enemy of your master, who would help you escape," replied the ape-man.
"There is no escape; if I take to the trees they will stone me down."
"They will not find you; I will see to that."
"Why should you help me?" demanded the black, but he stopped now and looked up again, searching for the man whose voice came down to him in a tongue that gave him confidence in the speaker.
"I have told you that I am an enemy of your master."
Now the black saw the bronzed figure of the giant above him. "You are a white man!" he exclaimed. "You are trying to trick me. Why should a white man help me?"