When he turned for a last sight of it, he noticed a fine old house, standing castle-like on the summit of the cliff, just above the rocks beside which he had left his clothes. It had not been in view when he had quitted the high path for the beach and the lee of the cliffs.
He swam back to the shore, dressed, lighted his pipe, and sat among the rocks till twilight fell.
The moon appeared, a huge yellow ball, rising out of the sea.
He found himself humming an old song he had picked up the year before, while on a walking tour through Brittany.
“Au clair de la lune,
Mon ami Pierrot!
Prête-moi ta plume
Pour écrire un mot.
Ma chandelle est morte,
Je n’ai plus de feu!