 Pozzan of the eighth brought to you from out the pages of Edgar Wright borrows famous book What is it? It looks remarkably like a dead river lying on a dead man Yes, professor. And do you see what the man is touching? We, Monsieur Clayton, it is the solar helmet that Monsieur Pilots sees for Belendon's son's will I told you, Monsieur le Prosse sir, do not approach. It is possibly a trap. Monsieur Clayton, if you will walk backwards from here, Monsieur le Prosse sir will walk in this way. May so God, Monsieur, my men will first enter for this spot to see that there are no poisoned arrows or spears pointing to the place where Monsieur's helmet is And I will go first. Ah ha, Monsieur. It is for the first time that we have the lady luck with us. What is it? Yes, quickly, Donald. Is it Belendon? No, it is the witch doctor. One of our shots first had killed him but wasn't doing with Belendon's son help and Belendon's binoculars. The witch doctor, he was probably going to make medicine against us by using these things of Monsieur Belondaire. Well, I can't too much to get envious. You have to go over, except we killed a witch doctor. But Monsieur, it is very important. This is proof positive that at the time the witch doctor was killed, Monsieur Belondaire was still alive. But how, Donald, I cannot see any definite connection with that. Neither can I. If Monsieur Belondaire were dead, this witch doctor would not carry these things. It was a purpose of tribal ceremony that the witch doctor works the helmet and the glasses. Well, probably you're right, so I failed to understand. I think, in fact, I'm sure I understand. Somewhere I've read that these primitive people make images of the person or persons they wish to destroy and then proceed by concerted effort to pray them to death. That is correct, Monsieur le professeur. And in addition to make their medicine more potent, they gather whatever they can of the victim's belongings, surround the image with them and the victim's death, I give you my word, is I sure. All very ridiculous, I'm sure, and not helping us to rescue Philander. Monsieur Creton is young, pardon, young to Africa. When Monsieur has lived here as long as I have, ten years, he will not sneer at the black magic. But great scoundrels, you're not trying to tell me that we grown civilized men are going to determine our actions and reactions, such as in this Philander capture by what you choose to call black magic? Ha! It's ridiculous. Ridiculous? Ridiculous? Reposterous? Hardly, Monsieur, but yeah, we waste time. Allo? Allo? Don't you think we ought to take this witch doctor's costume? Can't see eye it's big, but it might be useful. It is but one more thing to carry. It is not being taken. Come with our bomb! Forward! On above! Another part of the jungle, Tarzan crouching on the low-hanging branch of a tree watches the file of blacks with their prisoner approaching. Now the first black is just a few feet away. Tarzan braces himself. Now he's throwing the rope. It's a perfect throw. The leading black is caught in the loop. Instantly Tarzan jerks the rope and begins pulling the terrified struggling savage into the tree. The other savage is stand-purified talking excitedly. Now Tarzan has the horror-stricken savage in his grasp. He struggles futilely. A fearful whale in the savage becomes limp. Tarzan raises him high and with a mighty thrust heaves his victim upon the heads of the excited savages below him. The blacks excited before are now thunderstruck. Who and what is this unseen power? They mumble whale and are aware chance to their gods to protect them. The bravest savages begin circling the tree, peering upward. Tarzan, hidden from view, draws an arrow from his quiver. Slowly, deliberately, he aims at one of the boldest blacks. The boasting twangs and the huge, savage, streaking foes. A gentleman again, Tarzan's arrows with deadly accuracy find their marks. Bedlam breaks loose and the remaining savages wailing with fright, fleeing consternation, leaving Belanda behind them. Tarzan quickly descends. Now he's above Belanda. He bends down. Continue that. Look over here. Tarzan listens. A half-smile crosses his face as he recognizes the bosses of the Tarman Ghani. With a few swift strokes, he cuts Belanda's barns and leaping for the lower branches of a tree is gone. That noise! Quickly, Messier! Almost sounds as if we caught up with the... Fight! Go! Look there! Belanda! Kill his Belanda! Let me get that gag out of your mouth. What a relief. I don't know. Get out of the flat. Here it is, Monsieur. Try to talk, Belanda. Follow this. Excellent. Try now. Now. What a relief. What has happened? Where did he go? Did you see him? What are you talking about? Who go where? The blacks, you mean? No, the jungle man. The man who rescued us from the lion. You saw him? As well as I could, lying there on my back, I saw enough to convince me. The Monsieur is diverse, distraught. Perhaps it, Monsieur, tried to tell from the beginning. Yes, can you calm yourself now. Tell your story from the time that you wandered off. Archimedes Cupid, there's a limit wandered off. Indeed, I was dragged off. Oh, then do tell us about it. I was asleep, just a few feet from Clayton there. Something I don't know what was, awakened me. I felt a sort of choking feeling. I put my hand on my throat. I felt a string just as I moved to Clayton. I tried to call. Found myself getting giddy for lack of breath. And then everything went black. And then, what? When I came to regain, that is, partially regain, my faculties, I was being carried along by some blacks. How long I'd been unconscious, I had no idea. Suddenly there was a hole. The blacks dropped me. And from the ground where I lay helpless, I saw a black actually rise from the trail and disappear in the foliage above. The blacks excitedly huddled together beneath the tree and immediately the one that disappeared in the tree was hurled with terrific force on top of them. They became wildly excited. Then I saw many of them who were nearest the tree drop with arrows in their chest. And then with the most awful sound, the remaining blacks fled leaving me. Before I could really collect my senses, it happened so suddenly, so quickly, this amazing jungle person released my barns and bannies. You may turn towards the press. That is astounding. I should like to meet this person. I have not the slightest doubt that you will do so, Darno. Ah, Philando, here is your sun helmet and your... Glasses? Why yes. Where did you find them? On the trail while we were following you. And now, Mr. Darno, much as I would like to push onto the village, I think that for Philando requires a little rest. Not me, Archimedes. I am ready now. Ah, that is the spirit that will win. But consider, we will require to conserve our strength. So let us come here till they break. Farisim is on board. Well, let's make it come to rest, please, Philando. Ah, thanks, Mr. Darno. While Philando has been describing his experience with Tarzan has returned to the platform in the trees where Jean tremblingly awaits him. Oh, thanks, Phil. I thought you were never coming back. Back? White skin. Come back quick. Perhaps you thought it was quick. But to me, it seemed, yes. Oh, I was so frightened alone. Alone? Alone? Yes, alone. Well, I suppose I'll have to explain that word. While Jean tries to think of a way to explain alone, Tarzan tries equally hard to think how to explain that the tarman gunning our streets. Jean breaks off a few twigs, lays them on the platform and passes her hand over them. White skin. Many, many. Many, many? Yes. Picking all the twigs up, but one, Jean points to it. Alone, alone. Alone, alone. Tarzan nods his head, then points to Jean. White skin goes. Jean, alone. White skin, come back. Jean, many? Well, it's not what Daddy or Mr. Philando would consider expert syntax. But then I understand. Under...understand? Yes. Yes? Yes. Yes. Jean nods her head several times as she repeats the word. Tarzan follows suit. Then Jean shakes her head from side to side. No, no, no, no. No, no, no, no, no. No, no. No, no. Yes, you've got it, White skin. White skin goes. Jane, frightened. Yes? White skin, come back quick. Jane, frightened? No. Well, for a limited vocabulary, you express yourself wonderfully. But enough fool for today. We ought to be asleep. A sleep? A sleep? Yes. Sleep. Look. Jane closes her eyes, places her cheek on the palm of her hand and pretends to sleep. Jane bleeds. Yes. White skin bleeds. Yes. Jane Porter seeks her resting place in the little leafy alcove Tarzan is built for her while the ape man stretches himself on the platform. With the departure of the blacks, the jungle slowly returns to normal. New Mother Lion leaves his lair to stalk his prey in the tall grasses. Tantor the elephant returns to the water hose. The baby monkeys release their clutching grass from their mother's haggie coats and excited chattering dies down to sleepy winters. Far in the distance dango the hyena howls to the moon and waits for the half devoured kill of some worthier jungle beast. While Tarzan, lord of the jungle, sleeps before Jane's resting place. A loyal bodyguard, a foe to be feared. A sentinel against all infusion.