From where he now stood, on the summit of the ridge, he could look either way, and by the faint reflected light of the stars, or the glare of the great pyre that burned on the central island, he could see down on one side to the ocean, with its fierce white pounding surf, and on the other to the lagoon, reflecting the stars overhead, and motionless as a mill-pond.

Between them lay the low raised ridge of coral, covered with tall stems of cocoanut palms, and interspersed here and there, as far as his eye could judge, with little rectangular clumps of plantain and taro.
But what alarmed Felix most was the fire that blazed so brightly to heaven on the central island; for he knew too well that meant--there were _men_ on the place; the land was inhabited.
The cocoanuts and taro told the same doubtful tale.

From the way they grew, even in that dim starlight, Felix recognized at once they had all been planted.
Still, he didn't hesitate to do what he thought best for Muriel's relief for all that.

Collecting a few sticks and fragments of palm-branches from the jungle about, he piled them into a heap, and waited patiently for his matches to dry.

As soon as they were ready--and the warmth of the stone made them quickly inflammable--he struck a match on the box, and proceeded to light his fire by Muriel's side.