As she advanced, the trail grew steeper and rougher. She followed it between dark pines, where the shadows were like night, along a narrow ledge to an abrupt descent into a low ravine.
More than once, as if contemplating retreat, she turned and looked back. But always, she went on.
At last, weary from climbing, she dropped down on a flat rock in the shade and dabbed at her damp cheeks with a white, red-bordered handkerchief.
As she rested she turned her head quite suddenly to listen. All the usual sounds of the tropical wilderness—the call of monkeys, the shrill squawks of parrots, the piercing screams of jungle birds—these all were familiar to her. But did she hear some strange sound—perhaps a human call? Listening intently for a moment longer, she rose and journeyed on.
Some ten minutes later she paused once more. She had come to a spot where the trail led round a towering cliff. In an involuntary gesture of dismay her hand unclasped and she dropped her handkerchief. It fell unnoticed among some large leaves—a bit of red and white amid the eternal gray and green of the jungle.
Summoning all her courage, Mildred proceeded along the rocky trail. Like a soldier she tramped straight on until, with a startled cry, she stopped abruptly, on rounding a sharp turn in the path.
There, directly ahead, was the ancient castle that might once have been a fortress or a prison. Standing before its door and staring intently at her, was a man with a rifle. Turning to flee, in complete panic—she found herself facing another man, similarly armed.
A man in front of her, and one in back—a towering cliff above—a precipice below. She was trapped.
* * * * * * * *
Darkness came to the Kennedy cottage, but no Mildred returned to join its worried owner at his evening meal.