Plainly nothing, but wait—­wait—­wait!  And she was so tired of the darkness; her eyes ached with it.

Her fears mustered afresh, fantastic fears this time.  She began to see green eyes glaring at her, to hear stealthy footfalls above the long, deep roar of the sea, to feel the clammy presence of creatures unknown and hostile.  Cinders, too, weary of inaction, began to whimper, to lick her face persuasively, and to suggest a move.

But Chris would not be persuaded.  She could without doubt have groped her way back to the cave where Bertrand kept his magic, and even thence to the shore.  But she did not for a moment contemplate such a proceeding.  She would have felt like a soldier deserting his post.  Sooner or later Bertrand would return and look for her here, and here he must find her.

But her fears were growing more vivid every moment, and when Cinders, infected thereby, began to growl below his breath and to bristle under her hand she became almost terrified.

Desperately she grappled with her trepidation and flung it from her, chid Cinders for his foolish cowardice, and fell again to whistling Bertrand’s melody with all her might.

Clear and flutelike it echoed through the desolate tunnels, startlingly distinct to her strained nerves.  Sometimes the echoes seemed to mock her, but she would not be dismayed.  It might be a help to Bertrand, and it certainly helped herself.

A long time passed, how long she had not the vaguest notion.  Cinders, grown tired of his own impatience, rested his chin on her shoulder and went phlegmatically to sleep, secure in her assurance that there was nothing whatever to be afraid of.  Small creature though he was, her arms ached from holding him, yet she would not let him go, he was too precious for that; and each minute that passed, so she told herself, brought the end of her vigil nearer.

Her heart was like lead within her, but she would not give way to despair.  He was bound to come in the end.

And come in the end he did, but not till her hopes had sunk so low that when she heard the first faint sound of his returning feet she would not believe her ears.  But when Cinders heard it also, and raised his head to growl, she suffered herself to be convinced.  He really was coming at last.

His progress was very slow, maddeningly slow it seemed to Chris. She watched eagerly for the first sign of light from his lantern, but she watched in vain.  No faintest ray came to illumine the darkness.  Surely it was he; it could be none other!

Nearer and nearer came the footsteps, slow and groping.  She listened till she could bear it no longer; then “Bertrand!” she cried wildly.  “Bertie!  Oh, is it you!  Do speak!”

Instantly his voice came to her out of the darkness.  “Yes, yes.  It is me, little one.  I have had—­an accident.  I am desolated—­afflicted; there are no words that can say.  And you awaiting me still, my little bird of Paradise, singing so bravely in the darkness!”