Tarzan the Terrible

By Edgar Rice Burroughs

Page 42

nothing now other
than mere dust. She had however saved a little pile of twigs from the
debris on the porch. In a short time she had made a light by firing a
bundle of twigs and lighting others from this fire she explored some of
the inner rooms. Nor here did she find aught that was new or strange
nor any relic of the departed owners other than a few broken stone
dishes. She had been looking for something soft to sleep upon, but was
doomed to disappointment as the former owners had evidently made a
leisurely departure, carrying all their belongings with them. Below, in
the gorge were leaves and grasses and fragrant branches, but Pan-at-lee
felt no stomach for descending into that horrid abyss for the
gratification of mere creature comfort--only the necessity for food
would drive her there.

And so, as the shadows lengthened and night approached she prepared to
make as comfortable a bed as she could by gathering the dust of ages
into a little pile and spreading it between her soft body and the hard
floor--at best it was only better than nothing. But Pan-at-lee was very
tired. She had not slept since two nights before and in the interval
she had experienced many dangers and hardships. What wonder then that
despite the hard bed, she was asleep almost immediately she had
composed herself for rest.

She slept and the moon rose, casting its silver light upon the cliff's
white face and lessening the gloom of the dark forest and the dismal
gorge. In the distance a lion roared. There was a long silence. From
the upper reaches of the gorge came a deep bellow. There was a movement
in the trees at the cliff's foot. Again the bellow, low and ominous. It
was answered from below the deserted village. Something dropped from
the foliage of a tree directly below the cave in which Pan-at-lee
slept--it dropped to the ground among the dense shadows. Now it moved,
cautiously. It moved toward the foot of the cliff, taking form and
shape in the moonlight. It moved like the creature of a bad
dream--slowly, sluggishly. It might have been a huge sloth--it might
have been a man, with so grotesque a brush does the moon paint--master
cubist.

Slowly it moved up the face of the cliff--like a great grubworm it
moved, but now the moon-brush touched it again and it had hands and
feet and with them it clung to the stone pegs and raised itself
laboriously aloft toward the cave where Pan-at-lee slept. From the
lower reaches of the gorge came again

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