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There had been three of these little, fuzzy balls at first—two daughters and a son—and Sabor and Numa, their sire, had been proud of them; proud and happy.
But kills had not been plentiful, and Sabor, undernourished, had been unable to produce sufficient milk to nourish properly three lusty cubs, and then a cold rain had come, and the little ones had sickened.
The momentum of the lioness carried the two heavily to the ground, dead except for a few spasmodic twitchings of their muscles.
The orphaned cub stopped twenty feet away and surveyed the first great catastrophe of his life with questioning eyes.
The spear passed through the savage heart and almost simultaneously the giant jaws closed upon the face and skull of the warrior.
He would have fled now had there been anywhere to flee.
The nearest tree was farther from him than was the lioness.
It was thus that Tarzan found him—Tarzan and Jane, his wife, and their son, Korak the Killer, returning from the mysterious land of Pal-ul-don from which the two men had rescued Jane Clayton.
At the sound of their approach the cub opened his eyes and rising, flattened his ears and snarled at them, backing close against his dead mother. "Plucky little devil," he commented, taking in the story of the tragedy at a single glance. "Lord Greystoke, foster mother to the son of Numa," laughed Jane.