Sometimes a smoke of gulls would burst from the reef spurs to northward of the break and the wind would bring a chanting sound mixed with the faint murmur of the surf, a murmur ceaseless as the whisper of a shell.
Lestrange, leaning on his elbow, gazed far and wide. Just at this hour of the westering sun the shadow of the island was beginning to steal seaward, venturing timidly across the lagoon to pass the reef and lose itself in the evening sea.
Stanistreet was watching the spreading shadow that had touched the Ranatonga lying far below like a toy ship, when his companion roused him.
“Look!” said Lestrange. He was pointing to the west, to a place where the trees broke towards the lagoon bank, leaving an open space green to the water.
“Look!” said Lestrange. “Can you not see their house?”
“I see nothing,” replied the sailor, shading his eyes against the sun. “House! No, sir, I can see nothing.”
“There by the clearing, the shadow of the trees has taken it, not far from the water’s edge, close to that tree cluster that stands out a bit into the open.”
The sailor gazed again in the direction pointed out. Ah, yes, now that it was pointed out he could see something that was neither rock nor bush nor tree. Even at full moon it would not have attracted the eye of a casual gazer, small as it was and elusive, like a nest in a branch.
Yes, it was a structure of some sort, and even at this distance he thought he could make out a roof, but why, if it was a house, had the builders chosen their habitation in a spot so remote, so far from the break? The wind could not say, nor the untroubled sea, nor the great sun that builds everything from his habitation to the dreams of men.
“Come!” said Lestrange. He rose from his half recumbent position and began to descend from the rock. On the sward, where the rock’s shadow was lengthening itself, he stood for a moment with head bowed and eyes half closed; then, turning, he led the way downhill towards the west.