He followed no path, picked out no road.
Stumbling along in the half-gloom of the twilight, he could make out the heads of the sand-dunes, bearded with yellow grass blown flat against their cheeks.

Soon he reached the prow of the old wreck with its shattered timbers and the water-holes left by the tide.

These he avoided, but the smaller objects he trampled upon and over as he strode on, without caring where he stepped or how often he stumbled.

Outlined against the sand-hills, bleached white under the dull light, he looked like some evil presence bent on mischief, so direct and forceful was his unceasing, persistent stride.
When the House of Refuge loomed up against the gray froth of the surf he stopped and drew breath.

Bending forward, he scanned the beach ahead, shading his eyes with his hand as he would have done on his own ship in a fog.