The darkness was terrible.  It seemed to press upon her, to hurt her.  Through it came the faint sounds of trickling water from all directions like tiny voices whispering together.  Now and then something moved with a small rustling.  It might have been a lizard, a crab, or even a bat.  But Chris thought of snakes and stiffened to rigidity, scarcely daring to breathe.  The roar of the sea sounded remote and far, yet insistent also as though it held a threat.  And, above all, thick and hard and agitatingly distinct, arose the throbbing of her frightened heart.

All the horrors she had ever heard or dreamt of passed through her brain as she waited there, yet with a certain desperate courage she kept herself from panic.  Cinders might run against her at any moment—­at any moment.  And even if not, even if she were indeed quite alone in that awful place, she had heard it said that God was nearer to people in the dark.

“O God,” she whispered, “I am so frightened.  Do bring them both back soon.”

After the small prayer she felt reassured.  She touched the clammy wall on each side of her, and essayed a tremulous whistle.  It was a brave little tune; she knew not whence it came till it suddenly flashed upon her that she had heard it on Bertrand’s lips on the day that he had drawn his pictures in the sand.  And that also renewed her courage.  After all, what had she to fear?

Over and over again she whistled it with growing confidence, improving her memory each time, till suddenly in the middle of a bar there came the rush and patter of feet, a yelp of sheer, exuberant delight, and Cinders, the wanderer, wet, ecstatic, and quite shameless, leaped into her arms.

CHAPTER VI

THE SPELL

She hugged him to her heart in the darkness, all her fears swept away in the immensity of her joy at his recovery.

“But, Cinders, how could you?  How could you?” was the utmost reproof she could find it in her heart to bestow upon the delinquent.

Cinders explained in his moist, eager way that it had been quite unintentional, and that he was every whit as thankful to be back safe and sound in her loving arms as she was to have him there.  They discussed the subject at length and forgave each other with considerable effusion, eventually arriving at the conclusion that no blame attached to either.

And upon this arose the question, What of the Frenchman, Chris’s preux chevalier, who had so nobly adventured himself upon a fruitless quest?

“He promised he wouldn’t be long,” she reflected hopefully.  “We shall just have to wait till he turns up, that’s all.”

She would not suffer her rescued favourite to leave her arms again, and they wiled away some time in the joy of reunion.  But the minutes began to drag more and more slowly, till at length anxiety came uppermost again.

Chris began to grow seriously uneasy.  What could have happened to him?  Had he really lost his way?  And if so what could she do?