I hung back,
divided between the impulse to tear myself away and the fearful
fascination of listening--between the urgent need to find and warn my
friends, and the forlorn hope to extract from her something that
might save them. The toil of the climb had bathed me in sweat, and
yet I shivered.
I halted. We were close under the summit of the ridge, and had
reached a passing clearing where, between the trees, as I turned
about, I could see the whole gorge in shadow at my feet, the sunlight
warm on its upper eastern slopes, and beyond these the sea. In half
an hour--in twenty minutes, maybe--I might reach the valley there
below, and at least cry my warning. I faced round again to my
companion.
She had vanished.
My mouth grew dry of a sudden. Was she a ghost? And her prattling
talk--the voice yet singing in my brain--
"Little boy! Little boy!"
I parted the tall ferns. Beyond them a small hand beckoned, and,
following it, I came face to face with a wall of naked rock from
which she lifted aside the creepers over a deep cleft--a cleft wide
enough to admit a man's body if he turned sideways and stooped a
little.
She clapped her hands at my astonishment. "You like my bower?" she
asked gleefully.
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