“I struck him, as he rose to hurt me. With one mighty blow I felled him to the ground. The heavy weapon you left with me I dashed on his head.— Now he lies quiet, and cold and bloody.” Waiko almost believed his story, and as he recounted it, he looked upon himself as a hero.
“’Tis well, my Waiko,” said Kulmervan. “What say you to that, my Chlorie? Alan is serquor—never more will Kymo rise upon his smiling face. Never more will he force his presence upon the people of Keemar. He is gone for ever from our sight.”
But Chlorie made no reply—only from beneath her mantle could be seen a slight convulsive movement, and from underneath came a tiny tatter of blue, that caught on a rose bush and fluttered in the breeze.
Birds singing—sweetly smelling flowers—a sense of hunger and thirst. These were the first conscious thoughts Alan had, as he opened his eyes on the world once more. He rose from the ground. His head was sore, but the bleeding had ceased. He plucked some luscious fruit that grew low to the ground. It revived him. Then he tried to think. Chlorie had been taken from him once more—but he would find her yet. He tenderly touched the tree to which she had been bound—and stooped and picked up the silken garment she had left behind. It was just a piece of soft, blue drapery that crumpled into nothingness in his hand. He kissed it reverently—it was part of his love.
He looked round wearily—there, attached to a bush was a piece of something blue—he bent over it—it was part of her gown. Further down, in the very centre of the path was another piece, while in the distance he could see yet a third. It was a sign. Chlorie was directing him the way she had gone. The trail was difficult to follow. The breeze had blown many pieces away altogether—others it had carried away playfully into a wrong direction, but by careful watchfulness, he discovered the right way, and there were always the little pieces of blue to guide him.
Then he lost the trail altogether. The last piece of blue was caught on a stone at the bottom of a mighty face of rock. No matter where he looked, there was no shred of blue to cheer him. He ran his hand over the surface of the rock, it was of a reddish sandstone and quite smooth. All around was a low-lying valley with neither a stone nor a tree behind which any one could hide. He could see for about ten miles, and there was no sign of the fugitives. Backward and forward he walked by the mighty wall of rock, and always his journey ended by the last little flutter of blue. The cliff rose sheer perhaps three hundred feet, and the solid wall extended as far as eye could reach. It was unthinkable that Kulmervan had scaled the wall—yet whither had he gone?
Suddenly he heard a rumbling noise; the sound of a thousand people whispering, and in front of him a huge slab of rock swung back, revealing a cavity within. The whispering grew louder and louder. He looked round for a hiding place. There was none—so without a moment’s hesitation he leapt inside the darkened cavern. A narrow path led downwards, and it was up this path the whispering seemed to be coming; whispering that sounded like a veritable army speaking in hushed tones. There was a piece of rock jutting out—Alan slipped into its embracing shadows, and waited. The sounds came nearer and nearer—then Kulmervan appeared with Waiko at his side. “The voices whispered that a stranger was coming. The voices are never wrong. See, my Waiko, see yonder if Alan the Evil is approaching.” The voice whispered and rolled in the darkness. The whole place was unwholesome and terrifying.
Kulmervan followed Waiko into the sunlight. Immediately they were out of sight, Alan slipped from his hiding place and ran swiftly down the narrow passageway. The faster he ran, the faster he drew in his breath, and it seemed as if a thousand men were mocking him. He sighed as his breath caught in his throat—immediately there were a thousand sighs behind him. Quicker, quicker he tore down the passage, to where he hoped, somewhere he would find his love hidden. The path was steep and narrow and was in total darkness, and he risked his life in his mad rush through the whispering horrors. He heard the voices again! Kulmervan and Waiko had returned. Blindly he rushed on—stumbling here, tripping there, in his haste to reach the Ipso-Rorka.
The path took an upward turn—he tripped over something. Putting his hands out before him, he felt on the ground. Rough steps had been cut out of the rock. Steadily he mounted upwards—upwards—the darkness was intense—the whispering shadows terrifying; but he never ceased his mad pace, so eager was he to reach Chlorie.
Steadily he ascended the stairs—they seemed interminable. Then in the distance, he saw a yellowish spot of light. As he rose higher, it became bigger, until it ended in a blaze of brightness. He had reached the top and was in an enormous cavern lit by torches in sockets all round the walls. The awful grandeur of the place startled him. In the very centre was a huge figure, twenty feet high. It was seated on a throne and had its hands outspread as if in benediction. It possessed a terrible face, cruel, hard, sensual,—and the incongruity of the posing of the hands struck Alan at once. Round the cave, at equal distances, were other figures, all enormous in stature, and possessing in their features the same bestial cruelty and lust. Stalactites hung from the roof. Stalactites forty feet long—Stalactites fifty feet long. Stalactites glorious, yet like deadly serpents with heads outstretched ready to strike. In one corner of the place was a huge beast in stone. Once it had lived, no doubt, now it was fossilized and cold. It was similar to the ichthyosaurus of prehistoric days—an evil-looking beast in its life, but infinitely more terrible in its stone period.