It was more than darkness about him.

An occasional light burning dimly here and there gave to it the appearance of a sea of ink threatening to inundate him.
The storm had not broken, but it was close, and the air was filled with a creeping warning.

The moaning of thunder was low, and yet very near, as if smothered by the hand of a mighty force preparing to take the earth unaware.
Through the pit of gloom Alan made his way.

He was not lost.

Three years ago he had walked a score of times to the cabin of old Olaf Ericksen, half a mile up the shore, and he knew Ericksen would still be there, where he had squatted for twenty years, and where he had sworn to stay until the sea itself was ready to claim him.