She began to see green eyes glaring at her, to hear stealthy footfalls above the long, deep roar of the sea, to feel the clammy presence of creatures unknown and hostile.

Cinders, too, weary of inaction, began to whimper, to lick her face persuasively, and to suggest a move.
But Chris would not be persuaded.

She could without doubt have groped her way back to the cave where Bertrand kept his magic, and even thence to the shore.

But she did not for a moment contemplate such a proceeding.
She would have felt like a soldier deserting his post.

Sooner or later Bertrand would return and look for her here, and here he must find her.
But her fears were growing more vivid every moment, and when Cinders, infected thereby, began to growl below his breath and to bristle under her hand she became almost terrified.
Desperately she grappled with her trepidation and flung it from her, chid Cinders for his foolish cowardice, and fell again to whistling Bertrand's melody with all her might.
Clear and flutelike it echoed through the desolate tunnels, startlingly distinct to her strained nerves.