RUDYARD KlPUNG 57 



wheeled slowly from right to left, melted into one 

 beam of solid light laid down directly in front of 

 the tower, dissolved again into eight, and passed 

 away. The light-frame of the thousand lenses 

 circled on its rollers, and the compressed-air 

 engine that drove it hummed like a bluebottle 

 under a glass. The hand of the indicator on the 

 wall pulsed from mark to mark. Eight pulse- 

 beats timed one half-revolution of the Light ; 

 neither more nor less. . . . 



..." Look," he answered, and I saw that 

 the dead sea-mist had risen out of the lifeless sea 

 and wrapped us while my back had been turned. 

 The pencils of the Light marched staggeringly 

 across tilted floors of white cloud. Prom the 

 balcony round the light-room the white walls of 

 the lighthouse ran down into swirling, smoking 

 space. The noise of the tide coming in very 

 lazily over the rocks was choked down to a thick 

 drawl. . . . 



. . . Fenwick left his chair, passed to the 

 Light, touched something that clicked, and the 

 glare ceased with a suddenness that was pain. 

 Day had come, and the Channel needed St. 

 Cecilia no longer. The sea-fog rolled back from 

 the cliffs in trailed wreaths and dragged patches, 

 as the sun rose and made the dead sea alive and 

 splendid. The stillness of the morning held us 

 both silent as we stepped on the balcony. A 



