D'Artagnan, the King Maker — page 119: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

108 The Lodestone of Friendship. been more at the hazard of a broken head than of drown- ing. Finally, day breaking and a comparative calm succeed- ing, they saw tthe headland guarding Las Salinas. In this cove the accumulation of wreckage was ap- palling. In one part it assumed the appearance of a breakwater, made not by man, but amphibious animals, such as a sea beaver, if possible. Elsewhere planks and beams supported the dead. Fish were warring for them. Ashore there were human remains tossed so high that they could not be reached without a man were lowered by a rope from the edge. All were beyond hope of revival. The distance was short, but currents and swirls made their best efforts, tired and famished, often a mockery; they advanced tediously, only to lose swiftly the stretch they had gained. Had they been bereft of human pangs, and had they no plaguing thoughts about their shipmates, they might have gazed fascinated’ at the beauty of the scene in the rosy light. Everything had its iridescent halo as the mists rolled away, and suddenly it disappeared under the solar heat. The water was blue, flecked by white where the sand and froth clustered; the scales of tiny fish in shoals glistened near the surface; the bubbles broke on the algae; small and large crabs gleamed green in clumps of seaweed. Ropes had ‘been reeved through the pierced rocks; they streamed down from tall peaks. A battered ship’s figurehead was perched in a pulpit- like rock, seeming to address the floating objects. Now and then, in gaps, the landscape could be seen on the high land, but it was lonely, though gladdened with the recent rains. “Not an honest windmill to be seen!” sneered the of- ficer. Alarming noises sounded along the strand; water seek- ing exit by innumerable holes, choking, gurgling, hissing and roaring. A poet would have said a young Triton was practicing on ‘his conch-horn. Our lieutenant was not poetical. # Eomicbooks.co ae