Under flying moons the shaggy hemlock
grove was like a bearskin thrown over the white and leprous nakedness of
stony flanks. At the approach of storm the shadows stealing forth from
that sullen, bowbacked ridge were blue-filmed, like the languid veil
which may be seen to hang before blue, tear-dimmed eyes.
Deep-water Peter felt from the first that he could not dwell for long on
the mysteries of that island without meeting little Rackby's mad
challenge. Insensibly he drew near--and at last set foot on its shores
again. Late on a clear afternoon he landed in the very lee of the
island, at a point where the stone rampart was fifty feet in height,
white as a bone, and pitted like a mass of grout. This cliff was split
from top to bottom, perhaps by frosts, perhaps by the fall of the buried
meteor. A little cove lay at the base of this crevasse, and here a bed
of whitest sand had sifted in, rimmed by a great heap of well-sanded,
bright-blue shells of every size and shape. This was the storehouse from
which Day Rackby drew her speaking shells.
He looped the painter of his dory under a stone and ascended the rock.
His heart was in his throat. All the world hitherto had not proffered
him such choice adventure, if he had read the signs aright. As if
directed by the intuition of his heart, he slipped into the shadows of
the grove.
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