And he thought of
monster devil-fish climbing, loathsome and soundless, about the dark
rocks.
He longed for a pair of Sark eyes, and shrank down into a hollow under
the ridge to watch this thing, with something of a creepy chill between
his shoulder-blades.
There was certainly something lighter than the surrounding darkness down
below, and it moved. It turned the corner and flitted along the slope,
slowly but surely, in the direction of his shelter. Its mode of
progression, from the little he could make out in the darkness, was just
such as he would have looked for in a huge octopus hauling itself along
by its tentacles over the out-cropping rock-bones.
He could not rest there. He must see. He crawled along the ridge as
quietly as he could manage it, and would have felt happier, whatever it
was, spirit or monster, if he had had his gun. Now and again it stopped,
and when it stopped he lay flat to the ground and held his breath, lest
it should discover him. When it went on, he went on.
When he came to the end of the ridge he saw that the nebulous something
had apparently stopped just where his house must be.
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