It was the finest day I had seen since
my return to England.
The turn of the tide came, before my cigar was finished. I saw the
preliminary heaving of the Sand, and then the awful shiver that crept
over its surface--as if some spirit of terror lived and moved and
shuddered in the fathomless deeps beneath. I threw away my cigar, and
went back again to the rocks.
My directions in the memorandum instructed me to feel along the line
traced by the stick, beginning with the end which was nearest to the
beacon.
I advanced, in this manner, more than half way along the stick, without
encountering anything but the edges of the rocks. An inch or two further
on, however, my patience was rewarded. In a narrow little fissure, just
within reach of my forefinger, I felt the chain. Attempting, next,
to follow it, by touch, in the direction of the quicksand, I found my
progress stopped by a thick growth of seaweed--which had fastened itself
into the fissure, no doubt, in the time that had elapsed since Rosanna
Spearman had chosen her hiding-place.
It was equally impossible to pull up the seaweed, or to force my hand
through it. After marking the spot indicated by the end of the stick
which was placed nearest to the quicksand, I determined to pursue
the search for the chain on a plan of my own.
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