THE DEATH CURRENT The pool was still again, still as a sheet of glass, reflecting the midnight glory of the moon.

It was climbing high in the sky, and the cloud-wreaths were mounting towards it as incense smoke from an altar.
The thick, black curtain that hung in the west was growing like a monstrous shadow, threatening to overspread the whole earth.
Down on the silver beach, crouched on one of the rocks that bordered the shining pool, Knight worked with fevered intensity to catch the magic of the hour.

The light was wonderful.

The pool shone strangely, deeply green; the rocks about it might have been delicately carved in ivory.
And across the pool, clear-cut against the utter darkness of the Spear Point Rock, stood Aphrodite the Beautiful, clad in some green translucent draperies, her black hair loose about her, her white arms outstretched to the moonlight, her face--exquisite as a flower--upturned to meet the glory.

She was like a dream too wonderful to be true, save for the passion that lived in her eyes.