Arriving thus under the arched entrance of his dwelling, he pauses for an instant in the shelter to pull off that great black scarf, and bang it in a loop upon his arm.

For that brief time, his face is knitted and stern.

But it immediately clears, as he resumes his singing, and his way.
And so _he_ goes up the postern stair.
* * * * * The red light burns steadily all the evening in the lighthouse on the margin of the tide of busy life.

Softened sounds and hum of traffic pass it and flow on irregularly into the lonely Precincts; but very little else goes by, save violent rushes of wind.

It comes on to blow a boisterous gale.
The Precincts are never particularly well lighted; but the strong blasts of wind blowing out many of the lamps (in some instances shattering the frames too, and bringing the glass rattling to the ground), they are unusually dark to-night.