o of white posts
and railings bordered the marshes. I leaned over them for a moment,
telling myself that I paused only to admire the strange colours drawn by
the sunlight from the sea-soaked wilderness, the deep brown, the strange
purple, the faint pink of the distant sands. But it was none of these
which my eyes sought with such fierce eagerness. It was none of the
artist's fervour which turned my limbs into dead weights, which drew the
colour even from my lips, and set my heart beating with fierce quick
throbs. Half in the creek and half out, not a dozen yards from the
road, was the figure of a man. His head and shoulders were beneath the
water, his body and legs and outstretched arms were upon the marsh. And
although never before had I looked upon death, I knew very well that I
was face to face with it now.

How long it was before I moved I cannot tell. At last, however, I
climbed the palings, jumped at its narrowest point a smaller creek, and
with slow footsteps approached the dead man. Even when I stood by his
side I dared not touch him, I dared not turn him round to see his face.
I saw that he was of middle size, fairly well dressed, and as some blown
sand had drifted over his boots and ankles I knew that he had been there
for some hours. There was blood upon his collar, and the fingers of his
right hand were tightly clenched. I told myself that I was a coward,
and I set my teeth. I must lift his head from the water, and cover him
up with my own coat while I fetched help. But when I stooped down a
deadly faintness came over me. My fingers were palsied with horror. I
had a sudden irresistible conviction I could not touch him. It was a
sheer impossibility. There was something between us more potent than
the dread of a dead man--something inimical between us two, the dead and
the living. I staggered away and ran reeling to the road, plunging
blindly through the creek.

"About two hundred yards further down the road was a small lodge at one
of the entrances of Rowchester. It was towards this I turned and ran.
The door was closed, and I beat upon it fiercely with clenched fists.
The woman who answered it stared at me strangely. I suppose that I was
a wild-looking object.

"It's Mr. Ducaine, isn't it?" she exclaimed. "Why, sakes alive!
what's wrong, sir?"

"A dead man in the marshes," I faltered.

She was interested enough, but her comely weather-hardened face
reflected none of the horror which she must have seen