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