The idea of rescue meanwhile had merged insensibly into escape, but neither remarked upon the change. It was only that the original emotion had spread a bit. Tim and Uncle Felix stood close together in this solemn clearing, waiting, peering about them, listening intently. But Tim had seen the sign; he knew what he was doing all the time; he was in more intimate relations with the Being of the Wood than his great floundering Uncle possibly could be. "Which way, do _you_ think?" asked the latter anxiously. There seemed no possible exit from the clearing, no break anywhere in the leafy walls; even the entrance was covered up and hidden. The Wood blocked further advance deliberately. "We're lost," said Tim bluntly, turning round and round. His eyes opened to their widest. "You've simply taken a wrong turning somewhere." And before Uncle Felix could expostulate or say a word in self-defence, the inevitable reward of his mistake was upon him. "_You've_ got the handkerchief!" Already the boy was looking about him for a suitable tree. "But _you_ saw the sign, Tim," he began excuses; "and it's _your_ wood; I've never been here before--" "That one looks the easiest," suggested Tim, pointing to a beech. It had one low branch, but the trunk was smooth and slippery as ice. He pushed aside the foliage with his hands to make an opening towards it. "I'll help you up." Tim spoke as though there was no time to lose. But help came just then unexpectedly from another quarter--there was a sudden battering sound. Something went past them through the branches with a crashing noise. It was terrific, the way it smashed and clattered overhead, making a clapping rattle that died away into the distance with strange swiftness. They jumped; their hearts stood still a moment. It was so horribly close. But the stillness that followed the uproar was far worse than the noise. It felt as though the Wood had stretched a hand and aimed a crafty blow at them from behind the shield of foliage. A quiver of visible silence ran across the leafy walls. They stood stock still, staring blankly into each other's eyes. "A wood-pigeon!" whispered Uncle Felix, recovering himself first. "We've been _seen_!" A faint smile passed over Tim's startled face. There was no other expression in it. The tension was distressingly acute. One sentence, however, came to the lips of both adventurers. They uttered it under their breath together: "It's--disappeared!" Instinctively they held hands then. Tim stood, rooted to the ground. "The _centre!_" They whispered it almost inaudibly. The horror of the spot where people vanished was upon them both. The power of the Wood had worn them down. "Yes, but don't _say_ it," cried Uncle Felix; "above all, don't say it aloud." And he clapped one hand upon his own mouth, and the other upon the boy's, as Tim came cuddling closer to his comforting expanse of side. "That only wakes it up, and--"