CHAPTER XXVI 

 THE BEACH ANGLER 



"The clouds are scudding across the moon; 

 A misty light is on the sea." 



HIGH wind had been blowing through the night 

 along the Atlantic coast, and the roar of the 

 waters pounding on the long yielding beach that 

 stood between the dunes and the open sea could 

 be distinctly heard a mile away. The clouds were drifting 

 low, rolling in, enveloping all familiar objects. The rain 

 fell in sheets, beating down tender plants, covering the 

 ground with leaves, which went scurrying away before the 

 gale. 



Wishing to see the dunes and sea in a storm, I fought my 

 way against the wind in the direction of the beach, passing 

 a fisherman who brought news of a wreck, and finally stood 

 face to face with the wild and pitiless sea. As far as the 

 eye could reach, a line of foam stretched away, above which 

 hung a nebulous smoke of spume or spray, that seemed to 

 blend with the low-lying clouds. 



The dunes, usually so soft and shifting, were now cold 

 and sullen, packed hard by the relentless downpour, for 

 once defying the wind. The sea was rising, and each suc- 

 ceeding wave threatened to overstep its bounds and flood 

 the beach. They had a strange, weird and unnatural color, 

 dark green shading into amber and copper tints — suggestive 

 of a hidden light, while the foam was ghostly in its absence 

 of color. 



The roar sensibly increased as the day grew apace, and 



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