distinctness. It was a real cry, the cry of a man in terror for his
life. I stopped short in the road and wiped my damp forehead. What a
fool I was! The night was over. Here in the garish day there was
surely nothing to fear? Nevertheless, I, who had started out thirsting
only to breathe the fresh salt air, now walked along with stealthy
nervous footsteps, looking all the time from left to right, starting at
the sight of a dark log on the sands, terrified at a broken buoy which
had floated up one of the creeks. Some fear had come over me which I
could not shake off. I was afraid of what I might see.

So I walked to the bend of the road. Here, in case the turn might be
too sharp for some to see at night, a dozen yards or so of white posts
and railings bordered the marshes. I leaned over them for a moment,
telling myself that I paused only to admire the strange colours drawn by
the sunlight from the sea-soaked wilderness, the deep brown, the strange
purple, the faint pink of the distant sands. But it was none of these
which my eyes sought with such fierce eagerness. It was none of the
artist's fervour which turned my limbs into dead weights, which drew the
colour even from my lips, and set my heart beating with fierce quick
throbs. Half in the creek and half out, not a dozen yards from the
road, was the figure of a man. His head and shoulders were beneath the
water, his body and legs and outstretched arms were upon the marsh. And
although never before had I looked upon death, I knew very well that I
was face to face with it now.

How long it was before I moved I cannot tell. At last, however, I
climbed the palings, jumped at its narrowest point a smaller creek, and
with slow footsteps approached the dead man. Even when I stood by his
side I dared not touch him, I dared not turn him round to see his face.
I saw that he was of middle size, fairly well dressed, and as some blown