“Its emerald shallows calling to the deep
Blue soundings where the soul of Man might sleep
For ever undisturbed but for the song
Of reef and sea—”
Away beyond the hill-borne trees of the island a flight of coloured birds passed like a scarf across the brilliant sky and vanished. Other sign of life there was none.
Stanistreet, having given his last orders, stood for a moment looking around him, the men, grouped forward, stood without a word, some gazing overside at the coral gardens and flights of fish, others with their faces turned shorewards to the groves of cocoanuts and the coloured gloom where the great bread-fruit leaves waved to the wind and the yellow of cassia and scarlet of hibiscus fought for the eye through the foliage shadows.
The schooner and all on board her seemed for a moment waiting, silent, expectant. Lestrange, leaning on the rail, had not turned his head; one might have fancied them waiting for the shore people to put off, watching the canoes taking to the water. But shore people there were none, nor canoes; neither voices of men nor the forms of women, nor the laughter of children; nothing but the untrodden sands and the foliage, fresh as when the world was young.
Stanistreet moved beside Lestrange, who turned, his face lit as if with the reflection of all the beauty around.
“Well, sir,” said the captain, “we’re in harbour at last. Shall I order the shore boat out?”
“Yes,” said the other, turning again to the rail. “Yes—but look, Stanistreet, look!”