Surely, surely, the diabolical sound was growing less distinct. … It was changing direction too. But whether in Quintana's direction or no Sard could not tell. He was no woodsman. He was completely turned around.
He looked upward through a dense yellow foliage, but all was grey in the sky — very grey and still; — and there seemed to be no traces of the sun that had been shining.
He looked fearfully around; trees, trees, and more trees. No break, no glimmer, nothing to guide him, teach him. He could see, perhaps, fifty feet; no further.
In panic he started to move on. That is what fright invariably does to those ignorant of the forest. Terror starts them moving.
* * * * *
Sobbing, frightened almost witless, he had been floundering forward for over an hour, and made circle after circle knowing, when, by chance he set foot in a perfectly plain trail.
Emotion overpowered him. He was too overcome to stir for a while. At length, however, he tottered off down the trail, oblivious as to what direction he was taking, animated only by a sort of madness — horror of trees — an insane necessity to see open ground, get into it, and lie down on it.
And now, directly ahead, he saw clear grey sky low through the trees.
The wood's edge!
He began to run.
As he emerged from the edge of the woods, waist-deep in brush and weeds, wide before his blood-shot eyes spread Star Pond.