"You say that the fault was all yours?" asked De Coude eagerly.

"All mine, monsieur. Your wife is a very pure woman. She loves

only you. The fault that you saw was all mine. The thing that

brought me there was no fault of either the Countess de Coude or

myself. Here is a paper which will quite positively demonstrate

that," and Tarzan drew from his pocket the statement Rokoff had

written and signed.

De Coude took it and read. D'Arnot and Monsieur Flaubert had drawn

near. They were interested spectators of this strange ending of a

strange duel. None spoke until De Coude had quite finished, then

he looked up at Tarzan.

"You are a very brave and chivalrous gentleman," he said. "I thank

God that I did not kill you."

De Coude was a Frenchman. Frenchmen are impulsive. He threw his

arms about Tarzan and embraced him. Monsieur Flaubert embraced

D'Arnot. There was no one to embrace the doctor. So possibly it

was pique which prompted him to interfere, and demand that he be

permitted to dress Tarzan's wounds.

"This gentleman was hit once at least," he said. "Possibly thrice."

"Twice," said Tarzan. "Once in the left shoulder, and again in the

left side--both flesh wounds, I think." But the doctor insisted

upon stretching him upon the sward, and tinkering with him until

the wounds were cleansed and the flow of blood checked.

One result of the duel was that they all rode back to Paris together

in D'Arnot's car, the best of friends. De Coude was so relieved to

have had this double assurance of his wife's loyalty that he felt

no rancor at all toward Tarzan. It is true that the latter had

assumed much more of the fault than was rightly his, but if he lied

a little he may be excused, for he lied in the service of a woman,

and he lied like a gentleman.

The ape-man was confined to his bed for several days. He felt that

it was foolish and unnecessary, but the doctor and D'Arnot took the

matter so to heart that he gave in to please them, though it made

him laugh to think of it.