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. CHAPTER XI THE WRAITHS OF THE RORKAS Alan remained motionless, watching the little craft vanish from his ken. He was thinking hard. Kulmervan had so far got the better of him, but the game was not yet won. It might be check to the King, but Alan was far from being mated. His eye searched the beach—there was nothing in sight; neither boat, nor sailing craft. He looked behind him at the many yawning cavern entrances. He was still in doubt as to the one which led to the Cave of Whispering Madness. He clenched his hands together till the knuckles showed white—there he was, alone on an island, impotent, useless—while the woman he loved was in the hands of a madman, and in danger, not of death as he knew it, but of dishonour, disgrace, and perhaps serquor itself. There was a mist at sea, and already the little barque had been swallowed up in its grey folds—nothing was in sight on the broad expanse of water. He looked above him—he saw no air bird in the heavens, its body gleaming in the light. On the island there was no trace of humanity but himself. Hope seemed far away. Then suddenly he remembered Kulmervan’s words. “Take the most easterly path, my Waiko. Always to the East.” Unconsciously he turned to the left, and walked quickly across the sands. A great promontory of rock stood out before him, hiding from sight the next little bay. He strode towards it, and found it was impossible to get round it. Already the water was too deep, so he made up his mind to scale it. Clambering up the slippery rocks, he at length reached the top. There before him lay the whole stretch of coast line. Tiny bays; little rivulets coming down narrow valleys and emptying themselves at last in the sea; rugged headlands, and grassy slopes all took their place in the picture. None of these things, however focussed themselves upon his mind; one thing only he saw, and one thing only drew him helter skelter over the rugged rocks. A tiny boat, almost like the Rob Roy canoe he favoured in his ’varsity days, lay drawn high up on the beach, and near it, a little log cabin was built at the water’s edge.