THE PRISON OF THE TREES

Just as a person in some phases of the state we call the dream condition has to run or finds himself rooted to the spot, Katafa bent aside with no more volition than a reed possesses when moved by the wind.

The very intensity of her longing and her passion cast her more completely into the grasp of the subconscious power that had her in its charge.

Dick, with a sharp cry as if someone had struck him, sprang across the mat, grasped at her again, and missed. She had bent and, springing erect again, all her soul craving for the embrace, with arms outspread like a drowning person, she in turn tried to grasp. Then, turning, she ran, as the dreamer runs followed by the viewless, across the sward. Pursued, yet untouched, she passed with the speed of Atalanta. The leaves divided before her, yet still she ran, unharmed by bramble, unhurt by tree, seeing nothing, protected by instinct.

Then, far in the woods, where the tall matamatas tossed their broad green leaves to the wind, she crouched amidst the ferns like a hare in its form.

The great crisis had come and passed and taminan had triumphed.