A faint scent of cigarette smoke hung about the silver beach--a drifting suggestion intangible as the magic of the night.
Could it have been this faint, floating fragrance that drew the flitting brown moth by way of the quicksand, swiftly, swiftly, along the moonlit shore travelling with mysterious certainty, irresistibly attracted?
There was no pause in its rapid progress, though the course it followed was tortuous.

It pursued, with absolute confidence, an invisible, winding path.

And ever the roar of the sea grew louder and louder.
Across the pool, carved in the blackness of the outstretched curving scimitar of rock, there was a ledge, washed smooth by every tide, but a foot or more above the water when the tide was out.

It was inaccessible save by way of the pool itself, and yet it had the look of a pathway cut in the face of the Spear Point Rock.

The moonlight gleamed upon its wet surface.