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It had been ten years since the Russian had escaped the fate of his
friend, the arch-fiend Rokoff, and not once, but many times during
those ten years had Paulvitch cursed the fate that had given
to Nicholas Rokoff death and immunity from suffering while it had
meted to him the hideous terrors of an existence infinitely worse
than the death that persistently refused to claim him.
Paulvitch had taken to the jungle when he had seen the beasts of
Tarzan and their savage lord swarm the deck of the Kincaid, and in
his terror lest Tarzan pursue and capture him he had stumbled on
deep into the jungle, only to fall at last into the hands of one
of the savage cannibal tribes that had felt the weight of Rokoff's
evil temper and cruel brutality. Some strange whim of the chief
of this tribe saved Paulvitch from death only to plunge him into a
life of misery and torture. For ten years he had been the butt of
the village, beaten and stoned by the women and children, cut and
slashed and disfigured by the warriors; a victim of often recurring
fevers of the most malignant variety.


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