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As the afternoon grows we steer for a silver strait,
all molten and a-fire, between blue island portals. And
passing through them, we come up a wide sea, Ross and
Elphinstone in long mountains on the west, Burnett just
behind us, and Merghi Islands hard by on our left, dark
Blue, with a narrow lane of sea between, and faint
purple ridges beyond. It is a lane that tempts one to
enter. On Cantor, a brief way ahead, with single palms in
outline on its crest, there is a settlement of Salon learning,
or trying to learn, the hard alphabet of civilisation.
As the afternoon wanes and earth moves up against
the sun, the islands that have been every colour all day,
from tropical green to a misty northern blue, turn to
their proper purple. In the east a heavy curtain of
velvet rain blots out the main of bay and peak and
cove ; but elsewhere each island stands out distinct in
its own serene personality. Nearest to us now, and
happily appropriate to the season of this voyage, are
the Christmas Islands. The sea is billowy, undulating,
tumultuous almost. In a bigger ship this would pass
unnoticed, but the Marguerite is a small craft. We
are steerino- directly for the Criddles in twenty fathoms
of water, but the gunner has his eye on a sunken rock.
Soon we shall turn away to the south, to anchor for
the night in the bay of the Amboyna disaster. The
white clouds above the rain purple of Morrison’s ,Bay
catch the lessening light, and fling it down upon the
sea, which straightway becomes silvery, as though the
moon were up. Between Court Island a id the Criddles
there is nothing but the western sea.
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