Solitude and night on a lonely shore, far removed from human kind, inevitably produces in the mind strange effects. All ordinary reasoning is set at naught and common sense goes astray. The nearness of the unknown and unapproachable ocean; the ever varying and menacing sounds that issue from it; the leaping and curling billows that, like white and black demons, seem trying to engulf the earth and make even the rocks tremble--all have a weird and uncanny influence. In their presence the imagination runs riot and the ghostly and supernatural usurp reason. Spectral shapes crawl out of dark fissures and leap from rock to rock and hideous sea monsters creep in the verge of shadows. To be alone on a small island of evil repute and many miles out in the ocean, as Manson was, was to have this weird influence more than doubled. At times, when reason seemed trembling in the balance, he fancied himself hovering over the battlefield where he had lain for hours suffering indescribable agony; and looking at the ghastly faces of dead men in the moonlight! He could see their white teeth showing in mocking grin and their glazed eyes staring at him! Here and there were parts of bodies: a head in one place, an arm and hand in another! Then he could see himself sitting upon the ground amid thick bushes, and resting in his lap was a boy's face, the eyes looking up into his in piteous appeal! How well he could recall every moment of that half-hour of dumb anguish and the last fight for life that dying boy had made! He could see the blood gush from his lips at every breath drawn in desperate effort, and feel the tight clasp of his hands and oh! the awful dread of coming death in his eyes! Then the last earthly effort when the poor boy had, in gratitude at sight of a pitying face, kissed the hand that killed him! To Manson's keen imagination it seemed as if Fate had led him to this horrible spot to go mad and die alone, tortured by remorse and despair.