I looked out of the opening and saw a brilliant star, then another and another. They were tiny and cold, but once your eyes were used to picking them out you realized they were everywhere. The sea heaved under them. I could no longer see that miraculous distant coastline, unless it were that faint radiance far out, as it were a diffusion of starlight hemming the waves. I looked down below me—and saw dim figures walking towards the shore.

They made no sound on the sand, they carried no light.

Were they Southern scouts? Naval? Or bandits?

But yes, they had a light with them. Or rather—always just behind one of them. They were all men, about a dozen, all barefoot as far as I could see, and the leader left a golden aureole on the sand after each footstep. This glow lingered, too faint to do more than throw shadows on the ankle-bones of those following, until the leader took his next step. This obviously could not be an artificial light—for one thing it served no purpose down there, not even lighting the way; for another, it could not be a signal, and was rather dangerous than otherwise, as these days in these parts any light shown by a small party is unwise; also, it seemed too soft to be artificial. Yet a man whose bare feet were attended by haloes was surely too good to be true.

I watched them, my breath bated. I could make out that they were walking gravely but without signs of search or flight, straight towards the shore, not in single file nor two by two but in an orderly way not at all straggling, their heads uncovered. There was nothing remarkable about their clothes, which were townsmen’s plain tunics and leggings, except for the leader whom I realized with a sort of calm shock was wearing rags. I half expected them to walk straight on into the sea, but just before the spurling of the first froth-creamed wavelets, glistering their points licking on the sand, the company stopped and seated themselves cross-legged in a circle.

I was agog to see what would happen next, though surely they’d do no more than talk a while at least, and I couldn’t hope to hear, but now behind me Urns stirred and coughed.

I don’t think they heard, but he was awake. He thrust his 448

yawning head past me, grew still as he saw men below. “Quiet, Urns,” I muttered. “They’re too many for us.” Really I only wanted to be able to go on watching them, but instinctively placatory I thought of the reason most likely to appeal to him. But he had stiffened, apparently, with malevolence. Throwing his usual creature-of-the-wild-sense to the chill winds, he scrambled out with surprising speed, and started down the slope barking.