“Good heavens.” Price is very uneasy. Emily Jane appears from the bivouac and prostrates herself on the ground.
“I love you, dear little island,” she murmurs, kissing the shore. “I would like to be married to a beautiful island like you.”
“I shall come to claim that promise one day,” says a deep, rich voice from nowhere.
Emily Jane: Did anyone speak?
McVittie: No one. I heard nothing.
Price: I thought—why, what’s that?
Mr. Balbus (emerging from a hollow tree): What’s what?
Price: That. There. Look.
The others: Where?
Price: There. Look. Now it’s there. Quick. It’s moved again. (A strain of unearthly music.)