When the moon flooded the gulf on the left with shimmering silver, and
the waves broke along the black rocks below in crisp white foam like
silver frost, he would stand by the hour there and never tire of it.
The moon cast such a mystic glamour over those great voids of darkness
and over the headlands, melting softly away, fold behind fold, on the
right, while Little Sark became a mystery land into which the white path
rambled enticingly and invited one to follow.
And to him, as his eyes followed it till it disappeared over the crown
of the ridge, it was more than a mystery land--a land of promise, rich
in La Closerie and Nance.
Always within him, as he watched, was the feeling that if the sweet
slim figure should come tripping down the moonlit path towards him, he
would be in no way astonished. When he stood there, watching, it seemed
to him that it would be entirely fitting for her to come so, in the calm
soft light that was as pure and sweet as herself.
And at times his eye would light on the grim black pile of L'Etat, lying
out there in the silvery shimmer like some great monumental cairn, a
rough and rugged heap of loneliness and mystery--the grimmer and
lonelier by reason of the twinkling brightness of its setting.
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