Two nights and two days he wandered to and fro. He was chilled to the bone, and was in a high fever. At last he had to give in, and lay under the shelter of a tree. The warmth of the sun revived him, and he crawled weakly to a bush on which grew luscious plums, ate his fill and slept. When he awoke he felt better and stronger. Perhaps he had been dreaming—the footprints must go on. But no, they came to an end at a grassy edge, and there was no mark to show that human beings had passed that way. He spent that day hunting for a sign of the fugitives, but was unsuccessful, and wearily retraced his way to the air bird.
The scenery was beautiful. The island rose to a chain of peaks in the centre, and beautiful passes and wooded valleys led through the mountains to the further side. The vegetation was purely tropical. Palms, breast high, grew to the edge of the sea shore; the undergrowth showed no sign of any animal inhabitants; not a twig was broken, not a leaf trampled upon, to mark the passage of a foreign body. Alan made the return journey quickly, and soon found himself at the edge of the bush. But the “Chlorie” had gone! There were the signs of where she had rested; the mark on the sand of her wheels; an oily patch on the ground showing where her engines had been lubricated—but all sign of her had vanished. Had Waz-Y-Kjesta failed him, or had Chlorie returned? He felt in his pockets—there was a scrap of paper and a pencil. “I am going inland,” he wrote. “If you come back, search for me. Alan.” He pegged it to the ground close to where the Chlorie had been anchored, and turning his face westwards, retraced his footsteps.
Time passed without his reckoning. When the nights came he lived for the day; and in the day time he dreaded the coming of the night. He reached the place where the footsteps ceased at dusk, and for the first time for days, slept through the night peacefully. His fever had abated, but he still felt curiously weak. Yet his brain was clear, and he set to work again to hunt carefully for the missing ones. Yard by yard he worked, and at last his patience was rewarded. There, on a bush low on the ground, he saw a piece of something blue that fluttered on the breeze. He stooped and picked it off the twig—it was blue silk, and with a thrill he recognized it as a piece of Chlorie’s dress. Feverishly he looked round him; alas, there was no other piece to act as a further guide. A thought came to him, and he lay flat on the ground and peered under the bush. There, a grassy avenue unfolded itself before his wondering gaze—it had been completely hidden by the dense woody undergrowth. So it was under this bush they had made their escape, and it was probably in dragging the unconscious girl through, that her dress was torn.
Alan wormed his way under the bushes, and gasped in wonder at the vista opened out before him. A straight avenue—bordered on either side by thick bushes and overhanging trees, ran perhaps two miles in a straight line. The grass underfoot was soft and velvety, and a narrow streamlet ran over white stones at one side. The bushes were laden with fruit, but even a cursory glance showed that a quantity had been picked quite recently. Twigs bearing fruit had been roughly broken off, and trampled under foot. On went Alan until he reached the end of the avenue, where four paths branched out in four different directions. He hesitated for a second—all four looked like virgin ground. But his eyes were quickened by love, and only love could have noticed a small patch of damp earth close to the water’s edge from where a stone had been kicked aside in a hasty transit. He looked round and saw the stone, its under side still damp—and knew that the fugitives were not too far off.
Down the path he went which twisted and turned, now narrow now wide again. Suddenly the path also came to an end, and thick bushes and low growing vegetation barred his way. Profiting by his past experience, he tried to peer under the bushes, but could find no sign of an outlet anywhere. All at once there came the sound of voices so close that he turned quickly, expecting to see figures behind him. But there was no one in sight. He listened intently—the voices came again—the Keemarnian tongue which he could understand quite well by this time— “—will leave you here,” “—spare me, I beg”—“leave you here”—“Kulmervan have mercy—mercy.”
It was all very disjointed, and the sounds seemed to come from every direction. Again he heard his loved one’s voice—distorted it is true, but even in the hoarse tones, he recognized that it was Chlorie speaking. “—get away.—help me. Waiko help—my father will reward—Waiko—” The voice trailed off. Alan was frankly puzzled. The voice came first behind, then before him—then it seemed to come from Heaven itself. A hoarse laugh sounded—Kulmervan’s. Alan was on the near track at last. Again the maniacal laugh came, fading away in the distance. Alan realized the trick nature had played him. He was listening not to the tones of his loved one, or her abductor, but to an echo. The originals might still be many miles away.
Madly he tried to force his way through the undergrowth. It was impossible. All night long he stayed in the little cul-de-sac, and at intervals caught fragments of conversation.
“prevent her escaping.—torture her if need be.”
“—love me Chlorie, just love me,” “—save me, Waiko!”
“—keep you with me always.”