the cliffs sank, and the shore curved sharply in the direction of the
island with its fort. There was the enigmatic dimness, though not
dense darkness, of the night. Nearer at hand the walls of rock made
the night seem more mysterious, more profound, and at their base
flickered the flames which had attracted Artois' attention. Fitfully
now these flames, rising from some invisible brazier, or from some
torch fed by it, fell upon half-naked forms of creatures mysteriously
busy about some hidden task. Men they were, yet hardly men they
seemed, but rather unknown denizens of rock, or wave, or underworld;
now red-bodied against the gleam, now ethereally black as are shadows,
and whimsical and shifty, yet always full of meaning that could not be
divined. They bent, they crouched. They seemed to die down like a wave
that is, then is not. Then rising they towered, lifting brawny arms
towards the stars. Silence seemed to flow from them, to exude from
their labors. And in the swiftness of their movements there was
something that was sad. Or was it, perhaps, only pathetic, wistful
with the wistfulness of the sea and of all nocturnal things? Artois
did not ask, but his attention, the attention of mind and soul, was
held by these distant voiceless beings as by a magic. And Vere was
still as he was, tense as he was. All the poetry that lay beneath his
realism, all the credulity that slept below his scepticism, all the
ignorance that his knowledge strove to dominate, had its wild moment
of liberty under the smiling stars. The lights moved and swayed. Now
the seamed rock, with its cold veins and slimy crevices was gilded,
its nudity clothed with fire. Now on the water a trail of glory fell,
and travelled and died. Now the red men were utterly revealed, one
watching with an ardor that was surely not of this world, some secret
in the blackness, another turning as if to strike in defence of his
companion. Then both fell back and were taken by the night. And out of
the night came a strong voice across the water.