Delarey stole along the beach, walking lightly despite his fatigue. He
felt curiously excited, as if he were on the heels of some adventure. He
passed the Caffè Berardi almost like a thief in the night, and came to
the narrow strip of pebbles that edged the still and lakelike water,
protected by the sirens' isle. There he paused. He meant to gain that
lonely land, but how? By the water lay two or three boats, but they were
large and clumsy, impossible to move without aid. Should he climb up to
the Messina road, traverse the spit of ground that led to the rocky wall,
and try to make his way across it? The feat would be a difficult one, he
thought. But it was not that which deterred him. He was impatient of
delay, and the détour would take time. Between him and the islet was the
waterway. Already he had been in the sea. Why not go in again? He
stripped, packed his clothes into a bundle, tied roughly with a rope made
of his handkerchief and bootlaces, and waded in. For a long way the water
was shallow. Only when he was near to the island did it rise to his
breast, to his throat, higher at last. Holding the bundle on his head
with one hand, he struck out strongly and soon touched bottom again. He
scrambled out, dressed on a flat rock, then looked for a path leading
upward.