“A present for you,” said Kineia tenderly and with a little laugh.
He took her hand and she let him hold it. Lygon, whose snoring had ceased for a moment, could be heard turning on his creaking bed, then the snores recommenced.
A little shudder of disgust ran through Kineia.
“Come,” she whispered, “let us get away from that.”
She led the way from the veranda amid the trees. A full moon was shining and the woods were full of light, a light green as the light of a sea cave.
He had released her hand, and now he turned to take it again, but she evaded him.
“I have come here to speak with you alone, not to hold your hand,” said Kineia. “Follow me, for what I have to say must be said far away from men and in the place where my mother’s people once worshiped their gods. You, who say that you love me, must obey me in this.”
“Lead on,” said Packard.
He followed as she went before him like a wraith through the green gloom. Now a shaft of moonlight struck her and now in a denser shadow she was almost invisible. Then came a break in the trees and Packard saw before him an amphitheater where, in the moonlight, great blocks of stone lay tumbled and where the steplike tiers of seats were burst apart by tree roots.
Here Kineia stopped and turned, where the ferns grew high amid the bowlders. This was the spot toward which she had been luring Packard for the last two days.