He was out of everybody's way, as if he were perched on the highest peak of the Himalayas, and in a sense as conspicuous.

Everyone in that part of the world knew of him, dwelling on his little island.

An island is but the top of a mountain.

Axel Heyst, perched on it immovably, was surrounded, instead of the imponderable stormy and transparent ocean of air merging into infinity, by a tepid, shallow sea; a passionless offshoot of the great waters which embrace the continents of this globe.

His most frequent visitors were shadows, the shadows of clouds, relieving the monotony of the inanimate, brooding sunshine of the tropics.