Earlier in the evening there had been a young moon on
Isla Water. Under it spectres of the mist floated in the
pale lustre; a painted moorhen steered through ghostly
pools leaving fan-shaped wakes of crinkled silver behind
her; heavy fish splashed, swirling again to drown the
ephemera.
But there was no moonlight now; not a star; only fog on
Isla Water, smothering ripples and long still reaches,
bank and upland, wall and house.
The last light had gone out in the stable; the windows
of Isla were darkened; there was a faint scent of heather
in the night; a fainter taint of peat smoke. The world had
grown very still by Isla Water.
Toward midnight a dog-otter, swimming leisurely by the
Bridge of Isla, suddenly dived and sped away under water;
and a stoat, prowling in the garden, also took fright and
scurried through the wicket.