George Allan England

“ But now, as he staggered along the sand between the palmettos—a crouching and grotesque figure in his white flannels—he became conscious of something in his path. It lay half in moonlight, half in shadow. An evil, sinuous, horrible thing it was, watchful and awake. The moon revealed it as a snakelike thing of chestnut brown, with obscure blackish bars. Tiny high lights glittered in its cold, malicious eyes. Its form was graceful, with the repellent grace of a thing supremely efficient only in inflicting death.
It drew back, slightly, as Wingate shuffled toward it ”

“ Slow surfs boomed along the beaches. In the palmettos, the night breeze seemed whispering secrets that no man should ever understand. The moon, a white round glory in the deepest of purple skies, irradiated the gleaming sands. The silver light slashed shadows like sticks of India ink across the porch floor, over the dunes, the clearing.
A few of the bolder stars dared to show their tiny candles, despite the moon. Somewhere, in thickets unseen, fluted the notes of a Southern whippoorwill—double notes, not triple like those of the North, but still reminding Wingate of nights long gone. ”

“ With an odd little cry, Wingate crushed the tablet between his fingers. He ground it to powder and flung the powder away. He staggered up, laughing horribly, and like a madman stumbled off among the palmettos, striking against them, scrambling up again.
The sea, the sea! There at last he could find cooling and peace, rest, oblivion, surcease from pain. The sea would give him all these. ”

“ A single lamp burned on the table, turned very low. The stifling heat made the place an oven. A normal man could hardly have caught his breath there. As for Wingate, he was breathing only in panting gulps. ”