CRICHTON stands motionless, the lid in his hand, though he
has forgotten it, and his reason for taking it off the pot. He is
deeply stirred, but presently is ashamed of his dejection, for it is
as if he doubted his principles. Bravely true to his faith that
nature will decide now as ever before, he proceeds manfully with his
preparations for the night. He lights a ship's lantern, one of
several treasures he has brought ashore, and is filling his pipe
with crumbs of tobacco from various pockets, when the stealthy
movements of some animal in the grass startles him. With the lantern
in one hand and his cutlass in the other, he searches the ground
around the hut. He returns, lights his pipe, and sits down by the
fire, which casts weird moving shadows. There is a red gleam on his
face; in the darkness he is a strong and perhaps rather sinister
figure. In the great stillness that has fallen over the land, the
wash of the surf seems to have increased in volume. The sound is
indescribably mournful.
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