So, striking a light, he was presently deep in the composition of a fiery sonnet.

It was evidently that which had caused all the phosphorescence.

But a sonnet is a mere pill-box; it holds nothing.

A mere cockle-shell,--and, oh, the raging sea it could not hold! Besides being confessedly an art-form, duly licenced to lie, it was apt to be misunderstood.

It could not say in plain words, "Meet me at the pier to-morrow at three in the afternoon;" it could make no assignation nearer than the Isles of the Blest, "after life's fitful fever." Therefore, it seemed well to add a postscript to that effect in prose.
But then, how was she to receive it?
There was nothing to be hoped from the post, and Damon's home in Sidon was three miles from the ferry.
Likewise, it was now nearing three in the morning.