They sailed past Golden Island, and past Sasardi, watching the colours of the sunset on the rocks and woods. The brilliant birds flew homing, screaming. A faint smell, sickly sweet, came to them in puffs from the shore. Now and then, in the quiet, they heard the wash of breakers bursting on reefs. The noise kept them company at intervals through the night, as they drove on, under the stars, past Pinos, past Zambo Gandi, towards the Point of San Blas. It burst upon them mournfully, like the blowing of a sea-beast, a wash, a breathing of the sea. When the dawn broke, flashing the flying-fish into silver arrows, they were at their hearts’ desire. The palms on Springer’s Key were trembling, in the light air, before them. The ring of reef on the key’s north side stood up black amid the surf that toppled tirelessly. Pelicans flew past to fish. Macaws screamed from the fruit trees. Two Indians, with gold in their noses, waved to them from their canoe as they paddled softly, to spear cavally. Beyond them, at anchor off the key, was a small sloop. Her men were filling water ashore, wading slowly up the beach with puncheons. The saluting gun, fired by Cammock’s order, made them gather together in a group. One of them waved. Others, still in the boat, rowed out to show the channel. The sun shone bright over the multitude of islands. The sea was so blue that the beauty of her colour was like a truth apprehended. It was so perfect a beauty that Margaret, looking on it, felt that he apprehended the truth. “Perrin,” he said, “Edward, what do you think of our home?” “I’m not thinking of that,” he answered. “I think that all these things are images in an intellect. I think, by brooding on them, one passes into that intellect.” The colours and house-flag blew out clear as the ship came to her berth. The sloop fired a salute; the _Broken Heart_ answered her. Soon she was opposite the little sandy beach in the centre of the key. Her sails drooped, her way checked; then, at Cammock’s shout, the anchor dropped, the cable running with a rattle, making the little fish scurry past, in view, though a fathom down. “Well, sir,” said Cammock, “we’ve broken the neck of that.” “Yes, captain. And now?” “I’ve had the old sail-room turned into a dining-room. It’s laid for breakfast now, sir. I’ve got to see the captain of that sloop and learn the news. That’s the first thing. Call my boat away, boatswain.”