Kenneth led the way up-stairs, chattering away the while, and making all manner of plans for the morning.
“Here you are,” he cried. “You’d like a bath in the morning?”
“Oh yes, I always have one.”
“All right. I’ll call you.”
As soon as he was alone, Max went to the window and opened it, to admit the odour of the salt weed and the thud and rush of the water as it beat against the foot of the castle and whispered amongst the crags. The moon was just setting, and shedding a lurid yellow light across the sea, which heaved and gleamed, and threw up strange reflections from the black masses of rock which stood up all round.
A curious shrinking sensation came over him as he gazed out; for down below the weed-hung rocks seemed to be in motion, and strange monsters appeared to be sporting in the darkness as the weed swayed here and there with the water’s wash.
He closed the window, after a long look round, and hurriedly undressed, hoping that after a good night’s rest the sensation of unreality would pass off, and that he would feel more himself, but he had no sooner put out the candle and plunged into bed than it seemed as if he were once more at sea. For the bed rose slowly and began to glide gently down an inclined plane toward one corner of the room, sweeping out through the wall, and then rising and giving quite a plunge once more.
It all seemed so real that Max started up in bed, and grasped the head, and stared round.
It was all fancy. The bed was quite still, and the only movement was that of the waves outside as they beat upon the rocks.
He lay down once more, and, as his head touched the pillow, and he closed his eyes, the bed heaved up once more, set sail, and he kept gliding on and on and on.