“I can’t let her lead the way into those black woods,” muttered Cleves.
“The wind is blowing in my face,” insisted Recklow. “We’d better hurry.”
Tressa laid one hand on her husband’s arm.
“I can find the Yezidee, I think. You never could find him before he finds you! Victor, let me use my own knowledge! Let me find the way. Please let me lead! Please, Victor. Because, if you don’t, I’m afraid we’ll all die here in the garden where we stand.”
Cleves cast a haggard glance at Recklow, then looked at his wife.
“All right,” he said.
The girl opened the hedge gate. Both men followed with pistols lifted.
The moon silvered the forest. There was no mist, but a night-wind blew mournfully through palm and cypress, carrying with it the strange, disturbing pungency of the jungle—wild, unfamiliar perfumes,—the acrid aroma of swamp and rotting mould.
“What about snakes?” muttered Recklow, knee deep in wild phlox.
But there was a deadlier snake to find and destroy, somewhere in the blotched shadows of the forest.