TIME'S FINGER 



" The more cleer and the more shynynge that Fortune is, the 

 more brutil and the sooner breketh she." — Chaucer. 



High up on the auspicious shoulder of the Island moun- 

 tain stands the Sentinel, a coarse, truncated pinnacle 

 of granite, roughened and wrinkled by the toll of the 

 moist breezes, alternating with the scorching flames of 

 the sun. It overlooks the league-long sweep of the 

 treacherous bay, with its soft and smothering sands, 

 the string of islets of the Yacka Eebah group, while 

 Bli and Coo-bie lie close under foot, set in a swirling sea. 



One aspect of the Sentinel commands all the map- 

 like detail of Pun-nul Bay, with its lab3Tinthian creeks 

 among a flat densit}^ of mangroves, like lustrous, uncer- 

 tain byways in a sombre field, erratic of shape, magni- 

 ficent of proportion. Beyond are many islets — dark 

 blue on a lighter plain. In the distance, on the other 

 hand, islands and islets trail away until lost in the vague 

 blending of sea and sky; and for a background is all 

 Australia. In front alone does the Sentinel peer over 

 uninterrupted space, and not always, for at times 

 patches of white filigree mark the outliers of the Great 

 Barrier Reef. 



Looking up from Pun-nul Bay before sunrise, the 

 base of the Sentinel was swathed in white — night's 

 rumpled draperies not yet tossed aside. As the east 

 glowed it stained the mist pink, and so warmed it that 



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