ALAN—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 footprints _must_ go 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 the first 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
growing vegetation 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 had taken. 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.