A long dazzling pathway of moonlight stretched over the sea, starting
from the horizon, ending at the great jutting promontory of the Spear
Point. The moon was yet three nights from the full. The tide was rising,
but it would not be high for another two hours.

The breakers ran in, one behind the other, foaming over the hidden
rocks, splashing wildly against the grim wall of granite that stood
sharp-edged to withstand them. It was curved like a scimitar, that rock,
and within its curve there slept, when the tide was low, a pool. When
the tide rose the waters raged and thundered all around the rock, but
when it sank again the still, deep pool remained, unruffled as a
mountain tarn and as full of mystery.

Over a tumble of lesser rocks that bounded the pool to shoreward the
wary might find a path to the Spear Point Caves; but the path was
difficult, and there were few who had ever attempted it. For the
quicksand lay like a golden barrier between the outer beach and the
rocks that led thither.

It was an awesome spot. Many a splinter of wreckage had been tossed in
over the Spear Point as though flung in sport from a giant hand. And
when the water was high there came a hollow groaning from the inner
caves as though imprisoned spirits languished there.

But on that night of magic moonlight the only sound was the murmurous
splash of the rising waves as they met the first grim rocks of the
Point. Presently they would dash in thunder round the granite blade, and
the sleeping pool would be turned to a smother of foam.