in majestic and unending procession, and the rocks that surrounded the
pool were already deeply covered. The surf of one great wave was rushing
over the beach to the Caves, and the spray of it blew over Knight,
drenching him from head to foot. Desperately, by that passing gleam of
moonlight, he searched for the opening of the path, the foam of the
oncoming procession already swirling about his feet. He spied it
suddenly at length, and in the same instant something within him--could
it have been his heart?--dropped abruptly like a loosened weight to the
very depths of his being. The way of escape in that direction was
already cut off. In the darkness he had not taken a straight course, and
it was too late.

Wildly he turned--like a hunted animal seeking refuge. With great leaps
and gigantic effort, he made for the open beach. He reached it, reached
the loose dry sand so soon to be covered by the roaring tumult of great
waters. His eyes glared out over the level stretch that intervened
between the Spear Point Rock and the harbour quay. The tide would not be
over it yet.

He flung his last defiance to the fate that relentlessly hunted him as
he took the only alternative, and set himself to traverse the way of the
quicksand--that dragged a man down quicker than hell.




CHAPTER VIII

THE BOON