The sighing and creaking continued far overhead, and the jarring cries of animals.

The butterflies were circling still in the patches of yellow sunlight.
At first Terence was certain of his way, but as they walked he became doubtful.

They had to stop to consider, and then to return and start once more, for although he was certain of the direction of the river he was not certain of striking the point where they had left the others.
Rachel followed him, stopping where he stopped, turning where he turned, ignorant of the way, ignorant why he stopped or why he turned.
"I don't want to be late," he said, "because--" He put a flower into her hand and her fingers closed upon it quietly.

"We're so late--so late--so horribly late," he repeated as if he were talking in his sleep.
"Ah--this is right.

We turn here." They found themselves again in the broad path, like the drive in the English forest, where they had started when they left the others.