“Good-night, friend!” she whispered.
He sprang up as though she had struck him, and blundered away into the darkness.
In the morning it was as before. He had gone off before she wakened. She lingered over breakfast; but he did not appear, and she could not endure Winthrope’s suave drawl. She went for another day on the headland.
She returned somewhat earlier than on the previous day. As before, Winthrope was dozing in the shade. But Blake was under the baobab, raking together a heap of rubbish. His hands were scratched and bleeding. To the girl’s surprise, he met her with a cheerful grin and a clear, direct glance.
“Look here,” he called.
She stepped around the baobab, and stood staring. The entrance, from the ground to the height of twelve feet, was walled up with a mass of thorny branches, interwoven with yet thornier creepers.
“How’s that for a front door?” he demanded.
“Door?”
“Yes.”
“But it’s so big. I could never move it.”