THE PRISON OF THE TREES
Just as a person in some phases of the state we call the dream condition
has to run or finds himself rooted to the spot, Katafa bent aside with
no more volition than a reed possesses when moved by the wind.
The very intensity of her longing and her passion cast her more
completely into the grasp of the subconscious power that had her in its
charge.
Dick, with a sharp cry as if someone had struck him, sprang across the
mat, grasped at her again, and missed. She had bent and, springing erect
again, all her soul craving for the embrace, with arms outspread like a
drowning person, she in turn tried to grasp. Then, turning, she ran, as
the dreamer runs followed by the viewless, across the sward. Pursued,
yet untouched, she passed with the speed of Atalanta. The leaves divided
before her, yet still she ran, unharmed by bramble, unhurt by tree,
seeing nothing, protected by instinct.
Then, far in the woods, where the tall matamatas tossed their broad
green leaves to the wind, she crouched amidst the ferns like a hare in
its form.
The great crisis had come and passed and _taminan_ had triumphed.