These worthy men, with their work behind them, seemed to have eluded by some secret pressure of their united force the splash and beat of nature’s chaotic waves. They seemed to have dragged their “hollow ship” out of the tide that summer afternoon⁠—up, up, up some hidden shelving beach, where all agitations were over.

Everything disturbing and confusing sank away out of sight for Wolf just then. Indeed, his whole life gathered itself together with lovely inevitableness, as if it were a well-composed story that he himself, long ago and time out of mind, had actually composed.

And by degrees while he lazily drank his ale and chatted with Darnley⁠—for Jason had for some unknown reason become suddenly silent⁠—the old fighting-spirit of his inborn life-illusion rose strong and upwelling within him.

And there came to him the vision of one particular rock-pool near Weymouth, to which he had once found his way. He saw the rose-tinged seaweeds sway backwards and forwards⁠ ⁠… he heard the crying of the gulls.⁠ ⁠…