True, the faith of a Keemarnian was wonderful. Alan longed to confide in him—yet dared not. For the second time he made a mistake. Alan saw Morar and asked her if the Princess’ apartments were quite safe from intruders.
“Quite,” said she. “There is only a very small window, and the doors have heavy bars.”
“She always keeps them locked?”
“Always.”
That night Alan remained in his own cabin, and worn out with continual watching, fell asleep at his open window. He had a dream so vivid that he thought it was real, and awoke with a start. Chlorie—the lady of his heart had appeared to him, arms outstretched, eyes swimming with tears—“My Lord,” she whispered. “The Cave of Whispering Madness—the Cave—” Her voice trailed away, something dark came before his eyes, there was the sound of a scuffle, a small cry, he felt a stabbing pain, and he awoke. It was broad daylight, and his door was flung open wide and Waz-Y-Kjesta, usually so placid and calm, was staring at him and calling him in excited distress.
“My Alan! Awake! I beg of you—”
“What is it?”
“The Ipso-Rorka—is gone.”
“Gone?”
“Gone! She has disappeared.”