Yes, the wrapping was hers, and it had been rent as though by a rude hand; but where was she?
With a beating heart once more I bent to read the writing of the footsteps.

Here they were mixed one with another, as though the two had stood close together, moving now this way and now that in struggle.

I looked up the path, but there were none.

Then I cast round about like a beagle, first along the river side, then up the bank.

Here they were again, and made by feet that flew and feet that followed.