A coppery waning moon hung low in the south-east, and sent a pale rusty
pathway across the sea to where, behind the sand-bar, rippling waves
broke in soft flash and sparkle. Its light was not strong enough to
quench that of the stars crowding the western and the upper sky. Tom
could distinguish the black mass of the great ilex trees on the right.
Could see the whole extent of the lawn, the two sentinel cannon and
pyramid of ammunition set on the terrace along the top of the sea-wall.
And nothing moved there, nothing whatever. The outstretch of turf was
vacant, empty; bare--so Tom told himself--as the back of his own hand.
The sounds seemed to have ceased now that sight denied them visible cause
of existence; and he began to wonder whether his hearing had not played
him false, whether the whole thing was not pure fancy, a delusion born of
agitated dreams.

He pushed the sash up as far as it would go and leaned further out of the
window. The luscious scent of a late flowering species of lonercera,
trained against the house wall, saluted his nostrils, along with a
fetid-sweet reek off the mud-flats of the Haven. Away in the village a
dog yelped, and out on the salt-marshes water-fowl gave faint whistling
cries. Then all settled down into stillness, save for the just audible
chuckle and suck of the river as the stream met the inflowing tide.

The stillness pleased him. For so many nights to come there would be none
of it; but ceaselessly the drumming of the engines, quiver of the screw,
and wash of the water against the ship's side.--All the same he did not
quite like the colour of the moon or that frayed flattened edge of it
westward. Why is there always something a trifle menacing about a waning
moon? He did not like the smell of the mud-flats either. It might not be
actually unhealthy; but it suggested a certain foulness. He yawned, drew
back into the room, and straightening himself up, stretched his hands