He slept that night amidst such a music of birds as he had never believed possible one country could produce.
Through the night of the twenty-sixth he and Jose Medina watched; their lanterns ready to their hands.

Lights there were in plenty on the sea, but they were the lights of acetylene lamps used by the fishermen of those parts to attract the fish; and the morning broke with the lighthouse flashing wanly over a smooth sea, pale as fine jade.
"There are three more nights," said Hillyard.

He was a little dispirited after the fatigue of the day before and the long, empty vigil on the top of the day.
The next watch brought no better fortune.

There was no moon; the night was of a darkness so clear that the stars threw pale and tremulous paths over the surface of the water, and from far away the still air vibrated from time to time with the throbbing of propellers as the ships without lights passed along the coast.
Hillyard rose from the blanket on which he and Jose Medina had been lying during the night.

It had been spread on a patch of turf in a break of the hill some hundreds of feet above the sea.