The Son of Tarzan

By Edgar Rice Burroughs

Page 187

A little glow of happiness
warmed her heart as she recalled her first meeting with Korak and then
the long years that he had cared for and protected her with the
solicitude and purity of an elder brother. For months Korak had not so
occupied her thoughts as he did today. He seemed closer and dearer now
than ever he had before, and she wondered that her heart had drifted so
far from loyalty to his memory. And then came the image of the Hon.
Morison, the exquisite, and Meriem was troubled. Did she really love
the flawless young Englishman? She thought of the glories of London,
of which he had told her in such glowing language. She tried to
picture herself admired and honored in the midst of the gayest society
of the great capital. The pictures she drew were the pictures that the
Hon. Morison had drawn for her. They were alluring pictures, but
through them all the brawny, half-naked figure of the giant Adonis of
the jungle persisted in obtruding itself.

Meriem pressed her hand above her heart as she stifled a sigh, and as
she did so she felt the hard outlines of the photograph she had hidden
there as she slunk from Malbihn's tent. Now she drew it forth and
commenced to re-examine it more carefully than she had had time to do
before. She was sure that the baby face was hers. She studied every
detail of the picture. Half hidden in the lace of the dainty dress
rested a chain and locket. Meriem puckered her brows. What
tantalizing half-memories it awakened! Could this flower of evident
civilization be the little Arab Meriem, daughter of The Sheik? It was
impossible, and yet that locket? Meriem knew it. She could not refute
the conviction of her memory. She had seen that locket before and it
had been hers. What strange mystery lay buried in her past?

As she sat gazing at the picture she suddenly became aware that she was
not alone--that someone was standing close behind her--some one who had
approached her noiselessly. Guiltily she thrust the picture back into
her waist. A hand fell upon her shoulder. She was sure that it was
The Sheik and she awaited in dumb terror the blow that she knew would
follow.

No blow came and she looked upward over her shoulder--into the eyes of
Abdul Kamak, the young Arab.

"I saw," he said, "the picture that you

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