Later on there would be a remnant of a moon, but as yet the sky above
was an ebon vault without a star, and the gulfs at his feet were pits of
darkness out of which rose the voices of the sea in solemn rhythmic
cadence.
Down in Grande Greve, on his right, the waves rolled in almost without a
sound, as though they feared to disturb the darkness. From the
intervening moments he could tell how slowly they crept to their curve.
Their fall was a soft sibilation, a long-drawn sigh. The ever-restless
sea for once seemed falling to sleep.
And then, as he listened into the darkness, a tiny elfish glimmer
flickered in the void below, flickered and was gone, and he rubbed his
eyes for playing him tricks. But the next wave broke slowly round the
wide curve of the bay in a crescent of lambent flame, and a flood of
soft, blue-green fire ran swelling up the beach and then with a sigh
drew slowly back, and all was dark again. Again and again--each wave was
a miracle of mystic beauty, and he stood there entranced long after his
pipe had gone dead.
And as he stood gazing down at the wonder of it, his ear caught the
sound of quick light footsteps coming towards him across the Coupee, and
he marvelled at the intrepidity of this late traveller.
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