capped wavelets , chased silver and platinum by the refulgent moon . Spenser was struck
by the island ' s strange , surpassing beauty , how Cyprus was indeed so favored by grace
that a newborn goddess might well decide to first set foot on dry land here .
He walked down the beige sand beach that fringed the promontory ' s inner edge ,
near the water where the wet sand was firmer . It was still hard going in his high heeled
jockey boots . Small waves lapped briskly , rhythmically against the shore . Sea spray
flicked Spenser ' s cheek .
A large mound stood at the promontory ' s end , a great , triangular heap of dark
stones covered with thick brush . There was a gap at the triangle ' s apex , a narrow , dark
crevice , obscure even to the moon ' s penetrating light .
Spenser found a good vantage point , reclined against a convenient , sloped
boulder , and drank brandy . It burned his stomach like fire . Spenser corked the flask , set
it aside , put a twisted , black cheroot to his mouth , and used his cloak as a shield from
the wind while he lit it with flint and steel .
He pulled hard until the cheroot burned hot , leaned back , and enjoyed his smoke
and the view . There was a strange , unfamiliar , bitter taste to the cheroot , but he
continued to smoke , indeed , found it more pleasurable the more he did . Moon and stars
were amazingly brilliant , swathed in Milky Way gauze . The waves ' rhythmic sound