* * * * *

Meanwhile, Terrence Malone and the lieutenant, Fernando’s rival, were rowing toward Duck Island fire or six miles away.  The island was reached.  It was a dismal affair little more than an elevated marsh.  When the tide was out on Duck Island, its extended dreariness was potent.  Its spongy, low-lying surface, sluggish, inky pools and tortuous sloughs, twisting their slimy way, eel-like, toward the open bay were all hard facts.  Occasionally, here and there, could be seen a few green tussocks, with their scant blades, their amphibious flavor and unpleasant dampness.  And if you chose to indulge your fancy, although the flat monotony of Duck Island was not inspiring, the wavy line of scattered drift gave an unpleasant consciousness of the spent waters and made the certainty of the returning tide a gloomy reflection, which sunshine could not wholly dissipate.  The greener salt meadows seemed oppressed with this idea and made no positive attempt at vegetation.  In the low bushes, one might fancy there was one sacred spot not wholly spoiled by the injudicious use of too much sea water.

The vocal expressions of Duck Island were in keeping with its general appearance, melancholy and depressing.  The sepulchral boom of the bittern, the shriek of the curlew, the scream of the passing brent, the wrangling of quarrelsome teal, the sharp, querulous protest of the startled crane, were all beyond powers of written expression.  The aspect of these mournful fowls was not at all cheerful or inspiring, as the boat containing the Irishman and lieutenant approached the island.  Through the gathering gloom of night could be seen a tall blue heron, standing midleg deep in water, obviously catching cold in his reckless disregard for wet feet and consequences.  The mournful curlew, the dejected plover and the low-spirited snipe, who sought to join him in his suicidal contemplations, the raven, soaring through the air on restless wings, croaking his melancholy complaints were not calculated to add to the cheerfulness of the scene.

[ILLUSTRATION:  He sat down on a broken mast.]

It was evident that even the inhabitants of Duck Island were not happy in its possession and looked forward with pleasure to the season of migration.

The boat touched the north shore, and Lieutenant Matson jumped out in mud up to his knees, frightening some wild fowls which flew screaming away.  The Englishman gave vent to some strong language, and desired to know if there was not a better landing place.  Terrence assured him there was not, and complained that ducks never sought a “dacint place” for their habitation.  Nothing but the glorious reflection that he was making himself a martyr for Morgianna’s sake could have induced the officer to take the torches and wade to the low bushes, where he was instructed to make a light and wait until his companion rowed around the island and drove the ducks in great flocks to the light, which he assured the Briton would attract them, and they would fall at his feet as if begging to be bagged.