* * * * *

Meanwhile, Terrence Malone and the lieutenant, Fernando's rival, were
rowing toward Duck Island fire or six miles away. The island was
reached. It was a dismal affair little more than an elevated marsh. When
the tide was out on Duck Island, its extended dreariness was potent. Its
spongy, low-lying surface, sluggish, inky pools and tortuous sloughs,
twisting their slimy way, eel-like, toward the open bay were all hard
facts. Occasionally, here and there, could be seen a few green tussocks,
with their scant blades, their amphibious flavor and unpleasant
dampness. And if you chose to indulge your fancy, although the flat
monotony of Duck Island was not inspiring, the wavy line of scattered
drift gave an unpleasant consciousness of the spent waters and made the
certainty of the returning tide a gloomy reflection, which sunshine
could not wholly dissipate. The greener salt meadows seemed oppressed
with this idea and made no positive attempt at vegetation. In the low
bushes, one might fancy there was one sacred spot not wholly spoiled by
the injudicious use of too much sea water.

The vocal expressions of Duck Island were in keeping with its general
appearance, melancholy and depressing. The sepulchral boom of the
bittern, the shriek of the curlew, the scream of the passing brent, the
wrangling of quarrelsome teal, the sharp, querulous protest of the
startled crane, were all beyond powers of written expression. The aspect
of these mournful fowls was not at all cheerful or inspiring, as the
boat containing the Irishman and lieutenant approached the island.
Through the gathering gloom of night could be seen a tall blue heron,
standing midleg deep in water, obviously catching cold in his reckless
disregard for wet feet and consequences. The mournful curlew, the
dejected plover and the low-spirited snipe, who sought to join him in