CHAPTER VIIITHE UNFORGIVEABLE KISS

The day passed slowly. Still the Princess remained in her cabin. Alan passed Waiko with his usual cheery smile, and the guilty student trembled and turned white at sight of the healthy man, who he thought had been doomed to serquor. Kulmervan remained in his cabin near the princess, and had his meals served him there. Waz-Y-Kjesta realized that something was wrong, but as Alan did not confide in him, he made no effort to find out the cause of his friend’s restlessness.

“My Waz,” said Alan suddenly, “is it possible for me to see the Ipso-Rorka? I wish to speak to her.”

“Not unless she sends for you, my friend. It is impossible else.”

“It is a matter of grave import,” said Alan earnestly. “To me, to her—”

“Nothing can alter custom, my friend. If she sends for you—well. Otherwise—” and he shrugged his shoulders expressively. Alan, however, was determined to speak with Chlorie by foul means or fair. Her cabin was situated in the front of the ship, and round it was a tiny balcony railed in just above the level of the deck.

He paced round this portion of the ship the whole day, resting only at mealtimes from his self imposed watch. Never once did the Princess appear. The Kymo was setting, the sky was bright with sunset colours; the sea was unruffled and calm. A fish leapt out of the water leaving rings of glistening fluid, roseate in the glow. Alan sat, out of sight, stillwatching the cabin door. Suddenly it opened and Morar, the Princess’ personal attendant appeared. She looked around hastily. “All is quiet, my Princess,” she cried. “No one is in sight. The sinful stranger is in his cabin, no doubt plotting ill against you and yours.” Chlorie came through the doorway. Her hair was gleaming, and her flowing draperies of blue showed up the fairness of her skin.

“I am stifled, Morar. ’Tis ill to spend so many hours without a breath of air. Watch you the other side, and should you see the evil one appear, appraise me, and I will again take shelter within.”

With a low bow Morar vanished, closing the cabin door behind her. The Princess paced up and down the tiny balcony, singing a Keemarnian lullaby. Still Alan remained silent and watchful, hidden from sight beneath the covering rail. Morar returned. “There is no sign of Alan the evil one,” said she, “but Taz-Ak Kulmervan begs an audience.”

“Bid him come hither,” said the Princess with a sigh. “Tell him I am weary, and must beg of him to be quick about his business.” She seated herself on a swinging lounge, just above Alan, who could almost feel the sweetness of her presence, the fragrance of her breath.

“Sweet Cousin,” said Kulmervan entering.

“Nay, Kulmervan, say what you have to say quickly. My head is tired—my eyes weary.”

“You have not been out to-day, my Chlorie?”

“Not until this evening. I have carefully obeyed your instructions. Were my father here, I should not care. But I dare not run any risks in his absence. How is Waiko?”

“Still very weak, my Princess. This evil one, this Alan, had contrived his evil work well. When I discovered Waiko a bandage was drawn tightly round his mouth, his nostrils were plugged with wool, and had I not entered when I did, serquor would have set in and Waiko would no more have laughed and played.”

“Oh, it’s terrible,” breathed the Princess. “Why has sin thus entered our beautiful land? I have heard of treasons, and plots and miseries; but so far wehave escaped. What is this stranger’s object, my Kulmervan?”

“I know not all his treachery, my Chlorie, but—”

“Why bring sorrow on Waiko’s family, and upon you, his friend?”

“I do not understand, but his intentions are evil throughout. I heard him tell his kinsman Desmond, that even the person of Chlorie herself was not sacred to him, provided he worked his will.”

“That is enough, Kulmervan,” she interrupted haughtily. “I will keep my cabin as you advise. Had I known in time, I should not have travelled home in his company. The Rorka, my father, will deal with this stranger, and the Hall of Sorrows will hold him safely, until he has been purged clean. Now good night.”

“Chlorie,” said Kulmervan passionately. “I dare say much to you to-night. Will you not offer me the flower of love? I dare not ask you to wed me—you are Ipso-Rorka—’tis for you to choose. But know I love you, love you with all my soul. Will you not honour me by choosing me for your mate?”

“Kulmervan,” said the Princess gently. “Why make me sad by all this useless talk? It can never be. I can place my hand in only one man’s—him I love. Him, alas, I have not yet met, but I do not love you, my Kulmervan. I never shall. Think, we played together in Hoormoori as babes, built palaces of sand by the sea, picked flowers and fondled our pets. We grew as brother and sister until you went to study with the Djoh, and I had to learn the lesson of royalty. No, my kinsman. I love you ’tis true, but not as a maid should love the man she mates, not as wife for husband, lover for lover. Let this be the last time you speak of such things, my Kulmervan. I will forget, and—”

“But I want you—you—you—,” and Kulmervan strode close to her and placed his arms about her.

“Let me go,” breathed the girl—but his lips were seeking hers.

“No—no—no,” she cried. “Not my lips—Kulmervan be merciful. My lips are sacred until Iwed—spare my lips.” But Kulmervan’s reason had gone. “My beautiful one,” he murmured, and ran his fingers through her glorious mantle of hair. He held her head between his hands, and drank in the glory of her face. Her eyes were open wide in terror, her lips tightly compressed, her power of movement gone. Nearer, nearer he drew. His breath came in hot gusts upon her cheek. Her eyelids quivered under his scorching kisses. Her cheeks reddened as his lips touched them. With one mighty effort she tried to release herself.

“In the name of Mitzor the Great, leave my lips,” she cried, but the madness of passion was upon him. He revelled in his power, laughed at her struggles, mocked at her impotence. Roughly he clasped her still closer to him, but the Princess was inert in his arms—the strain was too much for her, and blissful unconsciousness had come to soothe her. There was the slightest of sounds. Alan, the athletic still, vaulted over the rail, and swinging Kulmervan by the scruff of his neck threw him on to the ground. Tenderly he lifted the Princess in his arms—she was as light as a feather—and went into her cabin.

“Morar,” he called. “Morar.” The serving maid appeared, trembling as she saw her beloved mistress in the arms of “the evil one.”

“Your mistress has had a fright,” said Alan thickly. “Show me her couch.” Without a word the little maid led the way into the tiny sleeping apartment, and tenderly he laid his burden on the silken coverings of blue. “Look after her,” said he, “she has fainted.” With arms folded across his chest and his breath coming in spasmodic jerks, he waited outside the door. Presently Morar appeared. “The Ipso-Rorka has recovered,” she said, “and has now fallen asleep. What shall I do?”

“Allow no one to enter her apartments at all. I will send a letter to her in the morning. Can I depend on your giving it to her?”

“Yes. I can see you are not evil,” said the little maid. “Some mistake has been made. You are her friend.”

“I am her friend,” said Alan grimly. “Remember, Morar, no one is to enter these apartments without the Ipso-Rorka’s permission. You understand?” and he strode out on to the balcony. Kulmervan had gone, and he vaulted lightly over the balcony rail and went straight to his cabin. As he opened the door he recognized the sweet, sickly odour that he had smelt once before. So! He must be on his guard. Kulmervan and Waiko would stop at nothing—a madness had indeed come over them, a madness of the earth!

Holding his breath he went swiftly across the room, and opened the windows, then shutting the door behind him, went into the big saloon. Waz-Y-Kjesta smiled as he entered. “Where have you been, my friend? I looked for you everywhere.”

“Resting,” said Alan grimly. That night he never went to bed, but waited grimly for what might happen. He was left in peace, however, and toward dawn slept fitfully. When he woke, he wrote this letter to Chlorie.

“Chlorie—The Ipso-Rorka.

I beg of you, see me, just once before we alight at Hoormoori. I overheard the conversation of Kulmervan, and implore you to see me, if only to clear myself of the imputations your kinsman has made against me. In any case, believe that I am your devoted servant always. Command me—I will obey.

Alan”

He took the letter to Morar himself. “I will wait while the Ipso-Rorka reads it,” said he.

In a moment she had returned. “She will answer you later.” There were only four more nights to be spent on board the Chlorie, but much might happen in that time. There was no sign of the enemy—all Alan could do was to wait patiently for their next move.

That night, again, he had no sleep. Soon after he retired, the same sickly odour permeated the cabin. Again he leant out of the window until the fumes had passed; this time they were stronger and took alonger time to dispel. He smiled—it was to be a duel to the end, and he needed all his wits about him. Certainly, Keemarnians possessed of the “madness” were more formidable, more crafty, more callous enemies, than men belonging to Terra. Another night passed—no communication had come from Chlorie. Alan, weary of his vigil, tried to keep awake, but drowsiness overcame him, and his last conscious effort was to drag himself to the window, and rest with his head breathing in the pure air. Again the sweet fumes entered the room, but Alan had safeguarded himself. The next night passed without the enemy showing their hand. They doubtless thought him proof against “serquor” and would take other methods to rid themselves of his presence. Suddenly in the darkness of the night, a noise interrupted his musings. There was a jerk—a crash—and the vessel shivered. Alan flew out of his cabin and met Waz-Y-Kjesta.

“What is it?” he cried.

“Nothing to be alarmed about, my friend. Something has happened to the engine. I have not discovered what, yet—we shall be forced to make a descent. Luckily there is an island near; we will anchor there, and put the matter right. We shall be delayed only a very short time, I think.”

The machine descended in jerks and jumps with many creakings and groanings, but reached the ground in safety.

“I will seek Morar, and tell her to acquaint the Ipso-Rorka with this news,” said the Waz. The whole day passed, and the Y-Kjesta called Alan in dismay. “I cannot understand it,” said he. “There is a screw missing here, and that waste pipe has been filled with refuse. It means taking the whole of the mechanism to pieces, and two days delay at least.” But Alan guessed who had planned this sinister work, and that night he kept vigil—not in his own room, but outside the Princess’.

Waz-Y-Kjesta was frankly puzzled. “Yesterday I fixed up the screw for the outer valve,” said he, “yet to-day it has gone again. Surely I couldn’t have dreamt it—yet it could not go without hands.”

“Perhaps some one has moved it, purposely, for spite,” suggested Alan.

Y-Kjesta laughed. “Not in Keemar. Besides what for? Who could do such a foolish thing?”

True, the faith of a Keemarnian was wonderful. Alan longed to confide in him—yet dared not. For the second time he made a mistake. Alan saw Morar and asked her if the Princess’ apartments were quite safe from intruders.

“Quite,” said she. “There is only a very small window, and the doors have heavy bars.”

“She always keeps them locked?”

“Always.”

That night Alan remained in his own cabin, and worn out with continual watching, fell asleep at his open window. He had a dream so vivid that he thought it was real, and awoke with a start. Chlorie—the lady of his heart had appeared to him, arms outstretched, eyes swimming with tears—“My Lord,” she whispered. “The Cave of Whispering Madness—the Cave—” Her voice trailed away, something dark came before his eyes, there was the sound of a scuffle, a small cry, he felt a stabbing pain, and he awoke. It was broad daylight, and his door was flung open wide and Waz-Y-Kjesta, usually so placid and calm, was staring at him and calling him in excited distress.

“My Alan! Awake! I beg of you—”

“What is it?”

“The Ipso-Rorka—is gone.”

“Gone?”

“Gone! She has disappeared.”

“Are you sure?”

“Morar, her maid, left her as usual last night. This morning she knocked as usual for the Princess to open the door, which by the way, she always keeps barred, but she could get no answer. Thinking her mistress had overslept she went round to look in at the window. The bed was empty—Chlorie was not there”

“Where is Kulmervan?” asked Alan thickly.

“Kulmervan?”

“Yes. Is he on the boat?”

“I do not know”

“Go and see at once, and I’ll go to Morar”

The Ipso-Rorka’s little maid was crying bitterly. Without any ceremony Alan forced the door. The bed was rumpled and rough; the silken coverlets twisted and torn—Chlorie had not gone without a struggle!

Waz-Y-Kjesta came to Alan, with consternation written all over his face. “Three are missing altogether” said he “Can some evil spirit have taken them? Kulmervan and Waiko are nowhere to be found”

“I thought as much” said Alan savagely. He glanced rapidly round the room. A pile of papers lay on a desk. He smoothed them out. There, in a little blue envelope addressed to himself, was a letter from his dear one. He opened it quickly.

“My Lord, (it ran)

Since you saved me from my kinsman, Kulmervan my cousin has once more forced himself into my presence. He is possessed of a madness. I beg of you save me from him. I have looked at you often and I know now I was deceived by him when he whispered tales of your evil doing. I trust you implicitly. I do as you bid me. I command your help.

Chlorie”

Then underneath was written,

“He has spoken to me again through my window. He threatens me with dishonour—disgrace. He talks of the Cave of Whispering Madness. Come to me on receipt of this”

“The cur” muttered Alan. He turned to Y-Kjesta. “Where is the Cave of Whispering-Madness?”

“I have never heard of it, my Alan”

“Listen. I am going to find Chlorie. Wait for me here with the air bird. Should I fail to come by the time the Kymo has sunk ten times—go at once to the Rorka, and ask him to send his aid here”

“Where then, is Chlorie?”

“I don’t know, but I’m going to do my best to find out. This island isn’t very big—ten miles square at the most, and I intend to search every bit of it if necessary, to find her”

“What about Kulmervan and Waiko?”

“Should you see them, put them under restraint. Bar their windows, and prevent their escape. They are both possessed of the madness—but there, I doubt if you’ll see them. Where Chlorie is—there shall I also find Kulmervan and Waiko”

“Can I come too?”

“No, my friend. You stay here and watch in case Chlorie comes. I go now—I shall take no provision with me—fruit will be my meat, and the sap of the water tree my drink. Farewell” and Alan leapt over the bulwarks and disappeared from sight in the thick brush and undergrowth of the island.

CHAPTER IXALAN—THE KNIGHT ERRANT

As Alan leapt over the bulwarks, his quick eye caught sight of footmarks, two going one way, and two the other, with perhaps five feet between them. “So,” said he grimly to himself, “they were carrying her between them. Poor little Chlorie.” The tracks were easy to follow, they led down to the sea and along the seashore. Steadily they went on and Alan followed dauntlessly. There was no attempt made to cover their traces. On they went, carrying their burden between them.

They had about ten hours start, and although night was falling, Alan continued at his self imposed task. Darker and darker it grew, until at length it was impossible to see the footmarks, so he sat down hopelessly to wait for the dawn.

The night was chilly and the rain poured down, so Alan was soaked to the skin, and shivered violently as the grey dawn rose. The rain had almost obliterated the marks, but they showed up faintly here and there on the wet sand. He had no time to look at the scenery through which he was passing—his one thought was Chlorie—not the Princess, but Chlorie the woman, Chlorie his love.

On, on he went all day, and still the footprints showed here and there. Night came, and again he was forced to rest and wait for the light. He was colder than ever, he shivered violently, and longed for the warmth of the sun. That night he never slept at all, and he rose in the early morning light stiff and tired. His head felt light, his limbs ached, and the one thing he could think of coherently was Chlorie.

Suddenly all traces of the marks vanished. He hunted high and low, but all to no purpose; they ended as abruptly as if the pursued had been snatched up into the heavens.

Two nights and two days he wandered to and fro. He was chilled to the bone, and was in a high fever. At last he had to give in, and lay under the shelter of a tree. The warmth of the sun revived him, and he crawled weakly to a bush on which grew luscious plums, ate his fill and slept. When he awoke he felt better and stronger. Perhaps he had been dreaming—the footprintsmustgo on. But no, they came to an end at a grassy edge, and there was no mark to show that human beings had passed that way. He spent that day hunting for a sign of the fugitives, but was unsuccessful, and wearily retraced his way to the air bird.

The scenery was beautiful. The island rose to a chain of peaks in the centre, and beautiful passes and wooded valleys led through the mountains to the further side. The vegetation was purely tropical. Palms, breast high, grew to the edge of the sea shore; the undergrowth showed no sign of any animal inhabitants; not a twig was broken, not a leaf trampled upon, to mark the passage of a foreign body. Alan made the return journey quickly, and soon found himself at the edge of the bush. But the “Chlorie” had gone! There were the signs of where she had rested; the mark on the sand of her wheels; an oily patch on the ground showing where her engines had been lubricated—but all sign of her had vanished. Had Waz-Y-Kjesta failed him, or had Chlorie returned? He felt in his pockets—there was a scrap of paper and a pencil. “I am going inland,” he wrote. “If you come back, search for me. Alan.” He pegged it to the ground close to where the Chlorie had been anchored, and turning his face westwards, retraced his footsteps.

Time passed without his reckoning. When the nights came he lived for the day; and in the day time he dreaded the coming of the night. He reached the place where the footsteps ceased at dusk, and for thefirst time for days, slept through the night peacefully. His fever had abated, but he still felt curiously weak. Yet his brain was clear, and he set to work again to hunt carefully for the missing ones. Yard by yard he worked, and at last his patience was rewarded. There, on a bush low on the ground, he saw a piece of something blue that fluttered on the breeze. He stooped and picked it off the twig—it was blue silk, and with a thrill he recognized it as a piece of Chlorie’s dress. Feverishly he looked round him; alas, there was no other piece to act as a further guide. A thought came to him, and he lay flat on the ground and peered under the bush. There, a grassy avenue unfolded itself before his wondering gaze—it had been completely hidden by the dense woody undergrowth. So it was under this bush they had made their escape, and it was probably in dragging the unconscious girl through, that her dress was torn.

Alan wormed his way under the bushes, and gasped in wonder at the vista opened out before him. A straight avenue—bordered on either side by thick bushes and overhanging trees, ran perhaps two miles in a straight line. The grass underfoot was soft and velvety, and a narrow streamlet ran over white stones at one side. The bushes were laden with fruit, but even a cursory glance showed that a quantity had been picked quite recently. Twigs bearing fruit had been roughly broken off, and trampled under foot. On went Alan until he reached the end of the avenue, where four paths branched out in four different directions. He hesitated for a second—all four looked like virgin ground. But his eyes were quickened by love, and only love could have noticed a small patch of damp earth close to the water’s edge from where a stone had been kicked aside in a hasty transit. He looked round and saw the stone, its under side still damp—and knew that the fugitives were not too far off.

Down the path he went which twisted and turned, now narrow now wide again. Suddenly the path also came to an end, and thick bushes and low growingvegetation barred his way. Profiting by his past experience, he tried to peer under the bushes, but could find no sign of an outlet anywhere. All at once there came the sound of voices so close that he turned quickly, expecting to see figures behind him. But there was no one in sight. He listened intently—the voices came again—the Keemarnian tongue which he could understand quite well by this time— “—will leave you here,” “—spare me, I beg”—“leave you here”—“Kulmervan have mercy—mercy.”

It was all very disjointed, and the sounds seemed to come from every direction. Again he heard his loved one’s voice—distorted it is true, but even in the hoarse tones, he recognized that it was Chlorie speaking. “—get away.—help me. Waiko help—my father will reward—Waiko—” The voice trailed off. Alan was frankly puzzled. The voice came first behind, then before him—then it seemed to come from Heaven itself. A hoarse laugh sounded—Kulmervan’s. Alan was on the near track at last. Again the maniacal laugh came, fading away in the distance. Alan realized the trick nature had played him. He was listening not to the tones of his loved one, or her abductor, but to an echo. The originals might still be many miles away.

Madly he tried to force his way through the undergrowth. It was impossible. All night long he stayed in the little cul-de-sac, and at intervals caught fragments of conversation.

“prevent her escaping.—torture her if need be.”

“—love me Chlorie, just love me,” “—save me, Waiko!”

“—keep you with me always.”

The madness indeed possessed Kulmervan and his friend.

When the sun rose Alan made one more attempt to leave the enclosure. Crawling on his belly, he wormed his way round the roots of the bushes. At last he discovered an opening. He crept through it, low upon the ground. When he got through, a network of pathways confronted him, but it was quite easy to discover the pathway Kulmervan hadtaken. Feeling secure in his flight, he now refrained from attempting to cover his tracks. By the broken grass and branches, the general upheaval of the soil, Alan was convinced that through this part of their retreat, they had dragged their unwilling victim along the path, so he ground his teeth and swore softly under his breath.

Twisting and turning the path opened out into a valley—a valley of rocks and stones between two mighty mountains. The scene was desolate, awe inspiring, dreary—almost terrifying in its grandeur. For perhaps two miles he followed it, until again it narrowed and the character of the scene changed. Once more it was a leafy lane he was traversing, that might have been in Devonshire, with its red earth and dainty ferns.

At intervals during the day he heard the echo, and it led him on—on—to his love.

A sound came upon his ear; it was that of voices—real voices, this time—no longer an echo. Cautiously he crept from tree to tree. There in the centre of a clearing sat Kulmervan. His robe was torn, his skin scratched—his eyes held a look of madness. At his feet stretched Waiko, listening eagerly to his friend’s counsel. And tied to a tree, her fair hair covering her, her garments lying strewn on the ground beside her, torn from her body by her half mad kinsman, Kulmervan—was Chlorie. Her head was sunk on her breast. She was breathing heavily.

Alan dared not move—it was two against one, and he had to save himself for her. Silent as a sleuth hound, he watched and waited; and even as he did so Chlorie lifted her head and gazed across the bodies of the two Keemarnians. Through the leafy spaces their eyes met. Into hers came recognition, followed by a flush of shame, as she shook her hair closer still about her gleaming body. Then she smiled a trustful smile, and dropped her head once more upon her breast.

CHAPTER XTHE CAVE OF WHISPERING MADNESS

Throughout the night Alan watched. Never did Kulmervan move from his place in the clearing—never did his eyes close nor did he show the slightest inclination to sleep. Towards morning Waiko raised himself from the ground. He was pitiable to look upon. Led on by a stronger will the madness had come upon him also. But it was a weaker madness than that which affected Kulmervan—it was a madness that chattered and gibbered in the sun, that laughed and cackled insanely—a madness that was pitiful to behold.

Alan watched through the leafy branches, and as the dawn rose, many times he met Chlorie’s questioning gaze with looks of encouragement and help. And she knew that when the time was ripe, this strange Lord from another world would save and deliver her.

As Kulmervan still made no attempt to move, Alan wondered whether it would be possible to overpower him. He made a movement and the slight sound was heard. Kulmervan sprang to his feet and looked round, and Alan saw he was clutching the huge limb of a tree—a formidable weapon in a madman’s hands. He was evidently not satisfied, and peered round the tree trunks carefully. Quietly Alan crept behind a large bush, and dropping on his belly he wormed himself underneath it until he was completely hidden.

The crackling of a twig was heard by the madman, who, with his dormant passions aroused was a dangerous enemy. He spoke sharply to Waiko. “What sound is that, my Waiko? Is it the stranger that tracketh us?”

“I know not,” said Waiko shuddering. “Oh,Kulmervan, my friend, let us leave the Ipso-Rorka here, and flee from the wrath of her father.”

“Nonsense, my Waiko! When the Rorka is told that his daughter, Chlorie the Fair, Chlorie the Pure, has spent forty and one nights with us in the darkness, he will be glad to give his soiled goods into my keeping for ever. Then in good time, I shall become Rorka. Shall I not punish my Chlorie then, for her indifference and insults?”

Waiko shuddered.

“My Chlorie,” cried Kulmervan suddenly, his manner changing. “Will you not promise me your hand? Oh, my darling, forgive me—I love you so—I love you. Give me your hand—swear before Waiko that you’ll take me for your mate. I’ll be so good to you—I’ll love you so” His voice was pleading. His earnestness could not be doubted, yet Alan knew it was but a moment’s lull in the disordered brain.

Chlorie never answered a word, and her silence drove Kulmervan again to threats. Tearing a handful of withes from the side of a running brook, he lashed the captive Princess across her legs with the stinging rushes. With an oath Alan burst from his hiding place, and was on the back of his enemy, before Kulmervan could recover from his astonishment.

Then followed a terrific fight. Alan with all his knowledge of the scientific sport was unable to get in a knockout blow. He parried and thrust, and landed Kulmervan a heavy blow under his jaw. His opponent tottered for a moment, but the blow had no lasting effect, and the heavy Keemarnian struck mightier blows still at his enemy. Waiko was entirely demoralized. He stood watching the fight—his breath coming in gasps, his blue eyes staring, his teeth chattering. As an ally, he was useless to Kulmervan; as an enemy he counted as naught to Alan.

Chlorie, tied tightly to the tree, was unable to move. Her wide open eyes followed the fighters in an agony of spirit; but not a sound came from her lips. True to the tradition of her land, the daughter of the Rorka gave no audible sign of her terror. Alan knew he was weakening. Imperceptibly at first he lost ground,but gradually he realized that his blows had no effect upon the Keemarnian. His hasty rush into the field of battle was worse than useless—he could no longer help his love. The Keemarnian gave him one terrific blow in the stomach. His wind went—he gasped, choked for breath, crumpled up and sank to the ground.

Kulmervan left his vanquished enemy’s side and went to Waiko who had been stupidly watching the scene.

“Watch him,” he commanded. “If he show any sign of awakening, give him a blow with this. It will be sufficient to put him to sleep again,” and he tossed the heavy stick beside the prostrate body.

Brutally he untied the ropes that bound Chlorie. She was stiff and weak, and the agony as the blood once more coursed freely through her veins, was almost more than she could bear. Still she remained silent, and with a noble gesture of majesty, stooped, and drew her mantle of blue about her naked body. Two other garments still lay on the ground—with a sudden thought she caught one up, and drew it within the folds of her cloak. She had a plan! Love had been born to her, in that exquisite moment of agony when she saw Alan knocked down. Her soul cried out within her that here was her mate at last. Her fine sense of belief and trust told her that it was impossible that he was sleeping the sleep of serquor. Sometime he would rise again—bruised, bleeding, torn, perhaps, but rise he would, and come to her aid.

Kulmervan took her roughly by the arm. “Come,” said he. “Waiko wait until the Kymo is full in the Heavens—it is but a short time. If Alan the Evil has not moved by then, follow me quickly. Always to the East, my friend. Always take the most easterly path, and you will find me.”

“Where are you going?” asked Waiko in horror.

“To the Cave of Whispering Madness,” said he, and involuntarily Chlorie shuddered.

“Do you know where it is, my Kulmervan?” asked Waiko.

“Yes. Have I not been there often? Ah, my friend, I arranged that the engines should fail. Ah,oft times should I have been in the Hall of Sorrows, but I came here instead, and of my own free will. I know the place I intend taking you to—I will show you sights—sights I have seen—ha! ha! ha!” and with a wild burst of laughter he dragged his unwilling captive through the bushes, and made his way Eastward.

Waiko remained silent, watching his vanishing friend. His mind was working strangely. The madness had left a deep sense of fear in the heart of Waiko. The inanimate body of Alan seemed to point to his undoing. The blood trickled slowly down the unconscious man’s face till there was a little red pool shining wickedly on the green grass. With a cry, Waiko picked up the club and swung it once, twice round his head. But as he would have swung it a third time, it slipped out of his nerveless fingers, and went spinning a hundred feet away. With a cry at his loneliness, Waiko turned and fled after Kulmervan. In a short space of time he had caught them up, and noticed with surprise that Chlorie was walking almost willingly with her captor. There was a rope passed round her body, it was true, but it was slack in the centre, and although she lagged somewhat behind, there was no need to drag her along.

“Alan?” questioned Kulmervan, as Waiko reached him.

“Is serquor.”

“Good.”

“I struck him, as he rose to hurt me. With one mighty blow I felled him to the ground. The heavy weapon you left with me I dashed on his head.— Now he lies quiet, and cold and bloody.” Waiko almost believed his story, and as he recounted it, he looked upon himself as a hero.

“’Tis well, my Waiko,” said Kulmervan. “What say you to that, my Chlorie? Alan is serquor—never more will Kymo rise upon his smiling face. Never more will he force his presence upon the people of Keemar. He is gone for ever from our sight.”

But Chlorie made no reply—only from beneath her mantle could be seen a slight convulsive movement,and from underneath came a tiny tatter of blue, that caught on a rose bush and fluttered in the breeze.

Birds singing—sweetly smelling flowers—a sense of hunger and thirst. These were the first conscious thoughts Alan had, as he opened his eyes on the world once more. He rose from the ground. His head was sore, but the bleeding had ceased. He plucked some luscious fruit that grew low to the ground. It revived him. Then he tried to think. Chlorie had been taken from him once more—but he would find her yet. He tenderly touched the tree to which she had been bound—and stooped and picked up the silken garment she had left behind. It was just a piece of soft, blue drapery that crumpled into nothingness in his hand. He kissed it reverently—it was part of his love.

He looked round wearily—there, attached to a bush was a piece of something blue—he bent over it—it was part of her gown. Further down, in the very centre of the path was another piece, while in the distance he could see yet a third. It was a sign. Chlorie was directing him the way she had gone. The trail was difficult to follow. The breeze had blown many pieces away altogether—others it had carried away playfully into a wrong direction, but by careful watchfulness, he discovered the right way, and there were always the little pieces of blue to guide him.

Then he lost the trail altogether. The last piece of blue was caught on a stone at the bottom of a mighty face of rock. No matter where he looked, there was no shred of blue to cheer him. He ran his hand over the surface of the rock, it was of a reddish sandstone and quite smooth. All around was a low-lying valley with neither a stone nor a tree behind which any one could hide. He could see for about ten miles, and there was no sign of the fugitives. Backward and forward he walked by the mighty wall of rock, and always his journey ended by the last little flutter of blue. The cliff rose sheer perhaps three hundred feet, and the solid wall extended as far as eye could reach. It was unthinkable that Kulmervan had scaled the wall—yet whither had he gone?

Suddenly he heard a rumbling noise; the sound ofa thousand people whispering, and in front of him a huge slab of rock swung back, revealing a cavity within. The whispering grew louder and louder. He looked round for a hiding place. There was none—so without a moment’s hesitation he leapt inside the darkened cavern. A narrow path led downwards, and it was up this path the whispering seemed to be coming; whispering that sounded like a veritable army speaking in hushed tones. There was a piece of rock jutting out—Alan slipped into its embracing shadows, and waited. The sounds came nearer and nearer—then Kulmervan appeared with Waiko at his side. “The voices whispered that a stranger was coming. The voices are never wrong. See, my Waiko, see yonder if Alan the Evil is approaching.” The voice whispered and rolled in the darkness. The whole place was unwholesome and terrifying.

Kulmervan followed Waiko into the sunlight. Immediately they were out of sight, Alan slipped from his hiding place and ran swiftly down the narrow passageway. The faster he ran, the faster he drew in his breath, and it seemed as if a thousand men were mocking him. He sighed as his breath caught in his throat—immediately there were a thousand sighs behind him. Quicker, quicker he tore down the passage, to where he hoped, somewhere he would find his love hidden. The path was steep and narrow and was in total darkness, and he risked his life in his mad rush through the whispering horrors. He heard the voices again! Kulmervan and Waiko had returned. Blindly he rushed on—stumbling here, tripping there, in his haste to reach the Ipso-Rorka.

The path took an upward turn—he tripped over something. Putting his hands out before him, he felt on the ground. Rough steps had been cut out of the rock. Steadily he mounted upwards—upwards—the darkness was intense—the whispering shadows terrifying; but he never ceased his mad pace, so eager was he to reach Chlorie.

Steadily he ascended the stairs—they seemed interminable. Then in the distance, he saw a yellowish spot of light. As he rose higher, it became bigger,until it ended in a blaze of brightness. He had reached the top and was in an enormous cavern lit by torches in sockets all round the walls. The awful grandeur of the place startled him. In the very centre was a huge figure, twenty feet high. It was seated on a throne and had its hands outspread as if in benediction. It possessed a terrible face, cruel, hard, sensual,—and the incongruity of the posing of the hands struck Alan at once. Round the cave, at equal distances, were other figures, all enormous in stature, and possessing in their features the same bestial cruelty and lust. Stalactites hung from the roof. Stalactites forty feet long—Stalactites fifty feet long. Stalactites glorious, yet like deadly serpents with heads outstretched ready to strike. In one corner of the place was a huge beast in stone. Once it had lived, no doubt, now it was fossilized and cold. It was similar to the ichthyosaurus of prehistoric days—an evil-looking beast in its life, but infinitely more terrible in its stone period.

Every movement Alan made was intensified a thousand times in this Cave of Whispering Madness. He realized what the name meant. It could indeed, drive the sanest man mad. He realized that he had a fair start of the two Keemarnians, and hurriedly hunted for his lost love. Softly he called, but although her name reverberated from floor to roof, no answering cry took up his challenge. Then whispering voices sounded nearer. Silently he slipped behind the stone monster that had once lived and mated. He was only just in time. Still louder grew the whisperings, and Kulmervan and Waiko appeared at the top of the stairway. With the greatest difficulty Alan was able to distinguish their words. The whisperings were so loud, so sibilant, that the voices sounded like one long hiss.

The two Keemarnians came close to the big carved figure in the centre of the cave. Kulmervan bent low on both knees before the hideous figure. “Spirit of our Fathers,” he cried out. “Humbly I pray, take my soul into thy keeping. It is thine—thine for ever—but in return, I pray you, grant me Chlorie’s love. See,I sprinkle thee with my blood in ratification of my bond,” and with a short knife he severed a vein in his arm and sprinkled the statue with the warm, red fluid.

Waiko was whispering, “Mitzor the Mighty, have mercy! Have mercy!”

“Fool,” cried Kulmervan. “Why mention that name here? I have bargained with Pirox the Killer—I belong to him. Chlorie shall be mine. You have come thus far with me, my Waiko, but further thou shalt go. Down, down on thy knees before Pirox—admit that he is great—greater than Mitzor! Ask a favour—nay demand a favour—seal it with thy blood.”

Waiko went down on his knees. His face was ashen—he was trembling in every limb. Then came a strange duet, intensified a thousand times by the whisperings. “Mitzor the Mighty.” “Pirox the Killer.” “Pirox.” “Mitzor.” “Mitzor.” “Pirox.”

In a passion Kulmervan arose, and struck Waiko, down. “Lie there, thou dog,” he cried. “May thou sleep for ever in serquor. I alone am mighty. Pirox alone is great.” Waiko never moved, he showed no signs of breathing. Had he indeed fallen into the trance-like state that the inhabitants of Keemar so dreaded? It seemed hopeless to Alan, that he would ever find Chlorie in this cavern of horror. He realized at last that Kulmervan was a degenerate. The entrance of poor Murdoch had not caused the madness. No doubt he had posed as a good Keemarnian, but he suffered from the madness, and deep in his heart even denied the existence of Mitzor the Mighty, the Great White Glory, and indulged in devil worship and fetish honour. What this Cave of Whispering Madness was Alan could not conjecture—perhaps in some far gone age, fallen Jovians had met here; made the Temple for their abominable worship, and lived a second life, unsuspected by their friends.

That the image in the centre was their god, Alan was convinced. But how had Kulmervan discovered it? Had it been handed down to him from his childhood, or had he in some way found it for himself? If was pitiful to see—a young Keemarnian of noble lineage,saturated with heathen mythology and heretical dogma. In truth he was a menace to his companions, living a life of deceit and sin. His was a complex character, for there was much that was sweet and lovable about him, and he was much to be pitied, for when his secret was discovered he would indeed become a pariah and an outcast. At the moment he felt he was safe, and continued his “Black Sacrifice.”

For Chlorie’s sake, Alan was forced to witness in silence the horrors that followed. At the foot of the statue was a slab of stone—raised perhaps ten inches from the ground. Upon it were ominous red stains. Quickly Kulmervan set about his business. In one corner of the cave were piles of brushwood—these he piled high under the stone slab. With a mighty effort he lifted the senseless Waiko upon it, and rested his head in a tiny curve at one end. Alan shuddered to see how it fitted the neck. The use of the slab was plain to see. He set fire to the wood by one of the torches, and the smoke curled up and the wood hissed and sizzled.

When the fire was safely alight, Kulmervan went to a corner of the cavern, and touched a hidden spring. A door opened, and revealed a flight of steps inside, leading below. As soon as he was out of sight, Alan rushed from his hiding place, lifted Waiko from the altar and hid him behind the mammoth fossil.

But the noise of his movements was magnified a thousandfold by the hideous whispering echoes of the place. Waiko was still and quiet—he scarcely breathed, and Alan dared not try to revive him. Kulmervan returned bearing in his arms a precious burden in blue. Alan started, and leant forward; his darling was not unconscious, but was submitting to the indignity put upon her with her usual patience. At the altar he stopped in frozen amazement. The stone was beginning to show red,—the deadly fire should have begun its work—but the altar was empty. He looked round—there was no one in sight. With a cry of rage he let go the rope to which Chlorie was fastened, put her to the ground, and darted to the headof the stairway leading to the cave’s entrance. And the yells of his curses and imprecations rose on the air, in volumes of sinister whisperings.

Alan was but six feet from his dear one. With a mighty rush he leapt from his hiding place, and caught Chlorie in his arms. He made for the secret door through which Kulmervan had brought her; Kulmervan heard the sounds and was just in time to see two figures disappearing through the little door. With another oath he strode across the cave—but the figures had a big start. They had closed the door behind them, and his fingers hesitated over the secret lock; so he was delayed by his own impatience and anger.

Chlorie had given herself up for lost, and when she felt two strong arms encircle her a vague terror came over her, but even as she was lifted up, a voice whispered in her ear—“Have no fear. ’Tis I—Alan. Trust yourself to me and I will save you.” Her emotion was too great for her to speak, but she let herself nestle in comfort in the arms of the powerful stranger.

The door clanged behind them—more stairs, very narrow. Down Alan went, and the darkness gave place to a faint light.

“Where are we?” asked Alan.

“I don’t know—but there is a cave down here which is kept padlocked—it was there I was imprisoned.”

Alan looked round quickly; the passage had widened and openings led off on either side. Immediately in front of them seemed to come the daylight.

“Can you run?” he asked tenderly.

“Yes—yes. Oh, to be free of Kulmervan!” Through the dim light they went. The whisperings were not quite as bad as in the upper cave, but still they were quite fearsome enough. They seemed to people the place with dead men—men who laughed, and jeered, and pointed their clammy fingers at their victims. But upon the whisperings came a more fearful sound—Kulmervan’s laughter!

“Hurry—hurry, my Princess.”

“I cannot,” she breathed. “My heart beats—it hurts me to talk.” Without a word he picked the lightburden again up in his arms and made off at a still greater pace; she flung one arm round his neck and clung to him confidingly. Nearer came the laughter. It was so close that it seemed almost on the top of them. Alan never forgot that journey; with his precious burden in his arms he hurried onward, always following the light. And nearer and nearer came the footsteps of the madman. At last they turned a corner—the cave opened out and they saw Kymo, shining in all his glory; the sea was breaking gently on the golden shore.

There was plenty of shelter near; rocks abounded and the vegetation was thick. Alan ran to where a dozen rocks, man high, rose from the seashore. There was in one a crevice that was wide enough to admit Chlorie.

“Stay there,” he whispered.

“Oh, don’t leave me.”

“I won’t leave you for long I promise you—but I want to watch for Kulmervan.”

“Take care of yourself,” she pleaded. “Oh, run no risks, I pray.”

With a quick glance round Alan left the shelter of the rocks. No one was in sight—Kulmervan had not shown himself. Quickly Alan made his way to the cave from which they had emerged. He entered it, and to his amazement found it had no exit. Solid walls blocked his way—it was just a hollowed out rock on the sands, going inland, perhaps ten or twelve feet only. Alan was perplexed. He had marked it as he thought by a big coloured boulder at its entrance; but upon careful examination he found there were dozens and dozens of such boulders all over the beach. Stepping from his hiding place he walked to the next cave; that upon examination proved to go deep into the earth, but it was not the cave from which they had escaped into the open. Wildly he rushed up and down. Twenty, thirty caves he encountered all like, very like, the one he was seeking. Some had narrow passages that twisted and turned and ended in a cave next door. Others went further, and after many serpentine turnings, brought him back to the place from whichhe had started. He knew he was in a dangerous position; any one of these caves might hold Kulmervan—an observer, but unobserved. Rapidly Alan made up his mind. With Chlorie he would leave the cave district altogether—they would strike inland. If they were still on the island, they would endeavour to find their way back to where the air bird had been anchored. That Waz-Y-Kjesta would return Alan was convinced—and when he did so, they would be saved.

Having made up his mind, he began to retrace his footsteps—but a hoarse burst of laughter startled him. He rushed to the mouth of the cave. There, sailing away to sea in a frail craft, was Kulmervan. It was just a raft he was on, with a tiny makeshift sail. But it was not at Kulmervan that Alan was staring horror stricken—incredulous. But at a blue figure near the helm—a little blue figure that was tied to a post to which the main-sail was fastened; a little blue figure that held out her arms imploringly to the shore. Alan could only stare and stare, incredulous, unbelieving—but the little craft grew smaller and smaller as it was tossed on the waves. Alan rushed to the rocks—the crevice was empty—Chlorie had once more been snatched from his arms.

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