As you already know, Florence was not there. She was still with Petite Jeanne on the strip of “made land” that skirted the shore. They were more than a mile from the island.
They had come at last to a strange place. Having completely lost their way in the darkness, they found themselves of a sudden facing a blank wall.
A strange wall it was, too. It could not be a house for, though made of wood, this wall was composed not of boards but of round posts set so close together that a hand might not be thrust between them.
“Wh—where are we?” Jeanne cried in despair.
“I don’t know.” Florence had fortified her mind against any emergency. “I do know this wall must have an end. We must find it.”
She was right. The curious wall of newly hewn posts did have an end. They were not long in finding it. Coming to a corner they turned it and again followed on.
“This is some enclosure,” Florence philosophized. “It may enclose some form of shelter. And, from the looks of the sky, shelter is what we will need very soon.”
“Yes! Yes!” cried her companion, as a flare of lightning gave her an instant’s view of their surroundings. “There is a building looming just over there. The strangest sort of building, but a shelter all the same.”
Ten minutes of creeping along that wall in the dark, and they came to a massive gate. This, too, was built of logs.
“There’s a chain,” Florence breathed as she felt about. “It’s fastened, but not locked. Shall we try to go in?”