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I

took

a

deep

breath

.

I

put

my

hands

to

the

sides

of

my

mouth

.

"

Cavor

!

"

I

bawled

,

and

the

sound

was

like

some

manikin

shouting

far

away

.

I

looked

at

the

handkerchief

,

I

looked

behind

me

at

the

broadening

shadow

of

the

westward

cliff

,

I

looked

under

my

hand

at

the

sun

.

It

seemed

to

me

that

almost

visibly

it

was

creeping

down

the

sky

.

I

felt

I

must

act

instantly

if

I

was

to

save

Cavor

.

I

whipped

off

my

vest

and

flung

it

as

a

mark

on

the

sere

bayonets

of

the

shrubs

behind

me

,

and

then

set

off

in

a

straight

line

towards

the

handkerchief

.

Perhaps

it

was

a

couple

of

miles

away

--

a

matter

of

a

few

hundred

leaps

and

strides

.

I

have

already

told

how

one

seemed

to

hang

through

those

lunar

leaps

.

In

each

suspense

I

sought

Cavor

,

and

marvelled

why

he

should

be

hidden

.

In

each

leap

I

could

feel

the

sun

setting

behind

me

.

Each

time

I

touched

the

ground

I

was

tempted

to

go

back

.

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A

last

leap

and

I

was

in

the

depression

below

our

handkerchief

,

a

stride

,

and

I

stood

on

our

former

vantage

point

within

arms

'

reach

of

it

.

I

stood

up

straight

and

scanned

the

world

about

me

,

between

its

lengthening

bars

of

shadow

.

Far

away

,

down

a

long

declivity

,

was

the

opening

of

the

tunnel

up

which

we

had

fled

,

and

my

shadow

reached

towards

it

,

stretched

towards

it

,

and

touched

it

,

like

a

finger

of

the

night

.

Not

a

sign

of

Cavor

,

not

a

sound

in

all

the

stillness

,

only

the

stir

and

waving

of

the

scrub

and

of

the

shadows

increased

.

And

suddenly

and

violently

I

shivered

.

"

Cav

--

"

I

began

,

and

realised

once

more

the

uselessness

of

the

human

voice

in

that

thin

air

.

Silence

.

The

silence

of

death

.

Then

it

was

my

eye

caught

something

--

a

little

thing

lying

,

perhaps

fifty

yards

away

down

the

slope

,

amidst

a

litter

of

bent

and

broken

branches

.

What

was

it

?

I

knew

,

and

yet

for

some

reason

I

would

not

know

.

I

went

nearer

to

it

.

It

was

the

little

cricket-cap

Cavor

had

worn

.

I

did

not

touch

it

,

I

stood

looking

at

it

.

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I

saw

then

that

the

scattered

branches

about

it

had

been

forcibly

smashed

and

trampled

.

I

hesitated

,

stepped

forward

,

and

picked

it

up

.

I

stood

with

Cavor

's

cap

in

my

hand

,

staring

at

the

trampled

reeds

and

thorns

about

me

.

On

some

of

them

were

little

smears

of

something

dark

,

something

that

I

dared

not

touch

.

A

dozen

yards

away

,

perhaps

,

the

rising

breeze

dragged

something

into

view

,

something

small

and

vividly

white

.

It

was

a

little

piece

of

paper

crumpled

tightly

,

as

though

it

had

been

clutched

tightly

.

I

picked

it

up

,

and

on

it

were

smears

of

red

.

My

eye

caught

faint

pencil

marks

.

I

smoothed

it

out

,

and

saw

uneven

and

broken

writing

ending

at

last

in

a

crooked

streak

upon

the

paper

.

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