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Updated: May 19, 2025
It was deep night; but the beacon on the Cabo de San Antonio, winking with a blinding glare like the eye of a Cyclops, broke the foam curling under the Garbosa's bow into spangles of colored radiance and sent a seething, restless, dancing pathway of fire out over the troubled waters. The adventurers were sailing close in shore before a faint land breeze.
Low in the west hung the new moon, a real Oriental crescent, fine drawn with curving points just as you saw it embroidered on the standards of the Prophet, or shining from the weathervanes of Mahometan minarets! That was what you called being in Africa! The beat of the surf was audible from the Garbosa's decks, and even calls from Moors ashore there in the fields.
And he sat on, listening to the agonized moans that came from the Garbosa's joints, as she took the seas, or looking up at the throats of the giant bellying canvas which, as it swayed to and fro, seemed to be scraping the sky with the point of the mast. But the night wore on uneventfully, and the dawn came, with a flock of red clouds, and as hot as a mid-summer's morning.
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