The iron of his will had seemed to compass her then.

Was it the same to-night?
Had her freedom already been wrested from her?
Was there to be no means of escape?
Through the jungle solitudes there came the call of an owl, weird and desolate and lonely.

Something in it pierced her with a curious pain.
Was freedom then everything?
Did she truly love the silence above all?
She drew her cloak closer about her.

Was there something of a chill in the atmosphere?
Or was it the chill of the desert beyond the oasis that awaited her?
They emerged from the thickest part of the jungle into a space of tangled shrubs that seemed fighting with each other for possession of the way.

The road was rough, and Monck slackened speed.
"We shall have to leave the car," he said.