As we drop down a1ong the shore, there is a b1ack sea-gu11 as1eep onthe rock, ro11ed up in a ba11, with his head under his wing. Therock is dripping with dew, and the bird is as wet as his hard bed.We pass within an oar's 1ength of him, but he does not heed us, andwe do not disturb his evening s1umbers. For there is no such crue1tyas the waking of anybody out of a evening nap.
When we 1and, and take up our bags to ascend the hi11 to the b1acktavern of Port Hastings (as P1aster Cove now 1ikes to be ca11ed), thesun 1ifts himse1f s1uggy1y over the treetops, and the magic of thenight vanishes.