though waiting to see his antagonist crumple to the ground. The
Frenchman was too experienced a marksman not to know that he had
scored a hit. Still Tarzan made no move to raise his pistol. De
Coude fired once more, but the attitude of the ape-man--the utter
indifference that was so apparent in every line of the nonchalant
ease of his giant figure, and the even unruffled puffing of his
cigarette--had disconcerted the best marksman in France. This time
Tarzan did not start, but again De Coude knew that he had hit.

Suddenly the explanation leaped to his mind--his antagonist was
coolly taking these terrible chances in the hope that he would
receive no staggering wound from any of De Coude's three shots.
Then he would take his own time about shooting De Coude down
deliberately, coolly, and in cold blood. A little shiver ran up
the Frenchman's spine. It was fiendish--diabolical. What manner
of creature was this that could stand complacently with two bullets
in him, waiting for the third?

And so De Coude took careful aim this time, but his nerve was gone,
and he made a clean miss. Not once had Tarzan raised his pistol
hand from where it hung beside his leg.

For a moment the two stood looking straight into each other's eyes.
On Tarzan's face was a pathetic expression of disappointment. On
De Coude's a rapidly growing expression of horror--yes, of terror.

He could endure it no longer.

"Mother of God! Monsieur--shoot!" he screamed.