Island, in valiant witness of how well she stayed.


VII.

Day breaks through the flying wrack, over the infinite heaving of
the sea, over the low land made vast with desolation. It is a
spectral dawn: a wan light, like the light of a dying sun.

The wind has waned and veered; the flood sinks slowly back to its
abysses--abandoning its plunder,--scattering its piteous waifs
over bar and dune, over shoal and marsh, among the silences of
the mango-swamps, over the long low reaches of sand-grasses and
drowned weeds, for more than a hundred miles. From the
shell-reefs of Pointe-au-Fer to the shallows of Pelto Bay the
dead lie mingled with the high-heaped drift;--from their cypress
groves the vultures rise to dispute a share of the feast with the
shrieking frigate-birds and squeaking gulls. And as the
tremendous tide withdraws its plunging waters, all the pirates of
air follow the great white-gleaming retreat: a storm of
billowing wings and screaming throats.

And swift in the wake of gull and frigate-bird the Wreckers come,
the Spoilers of the dead,--savage skimmers of the
sea,--hurricane-riders wont to spread their canvas-pinions in the
face of storms; Sicilian and Corsican outlaws, Manila-men from
the marshes, deserters from many navies, Lascars, marooners,
refugees of a hundred nationalities,--fishers and shrimpers by
name, smugglers by opportunity,--wild channel-finders from
obscure bayous and unfamiliar chenieres, all skilled in the