He walked a little way towards the sea, and sat down upon a log.
A faint land-breeze was blowing, a melancholy soughing came from the edge of the forest only a few hundred yards back, sullen, black, impenetrable.

He turned his face inland unwillingly, with a superstitious little thrill of fear.

Was it a coyote calling, or had he indeed heard the moan of a dying man, somewhere back amongst that dark, gloomy jungle?
He scoffed at himself! Was he becoming as a girl, weak and timid?
Yet a moment later he closed his eyes, and pressed his hands tightly over his hot eyeballs.

He was a man of little imaginative force, yet the white face of a dying man seemed suddenly to have floated up out of the darkness, to have come to him like a will-o'-the-wisp from the swamp, and the hollow, lifeless eyes seemed ever to be seeking his, mournful and eloquent with dull reproach.

Trent rose to his feet with an oath and wiped the sweat from his forehead.