The light showed the character of the country across the broad channel which separated him from it to be much the same as that of the island on which he had been marooned by the anarchists. It was criss-crossed with sand dunes till it resembled a crumpled bit of yellow parchment. Scanty, spear-like grass grew in hummocks on the undulations. As the light became stronger sea birds began to whirl about him, screaming weirdly.
Ned gazed seaward. Far out on the horizon was a smudge of black smoke. It was too great in volume for one vessel to have made. The cloud reached as far as the eye could see; as if a gigantic and dirty thumb had been swept across the sky line. To Ned it meant one thing.
"The fleet has passed down the coast on its way to Blackhaven," he mused. "Oh! for a chance to get to the mainland."
For a time he was in hopes that some fishing craft, or small boat, might pass within hail. But nothing of the kind occurred.
"I've got to get something to eat pretty soon," thought Ned, who was beginning to feel faint, "or—hullo! where have I seen that log before?"
His gaze was riveted on a big spar that was drifting idly through the arm of sea that swept between him and the land.
"I saw that fellow go through here last night; the tide must have turned and it's drifting back. Well, that settles it. There's almost as much water and current in there at low water as at high."
He fell to pacing the beach moodily. Once in desperation he waded into the turbid water and essayed to swim. But he was instantly swept from his feet, and a strong undertow seized on his legs and drew them down. When, panting and trembling, he stood once more on shore, he resolved not to risk his life in that manner again.
"An elephant couldn't swim that," he said to himself sadly.