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.