My mind wandered back to an ancient and classical story of tigers which I had read;
I strove to recall the author, but had difficulty.
Then in the midst of my fear I remembered that the tale was by Rudyard Kipling;
nor did the grotesqueness of deeming him an ancient author occur to me.
I wished for the volume containing this story, and had almost started back toward the doomed cottage to procure it when my better sense and the lure of the palm prevented me.
Whether or not I could have resisted the backward beckoning without the counter-fascination of the vast palm tree, I do not know.
This attraction was now dominant, and I left the path and crawled on hands and knees down the valley"s slope despite my fear of the grass and of the serpents it might contain.
I resolved to fight for life and reason as long as possible against all menaces of sea or land, though I sometimes feared defeat as the maddening swish of the uncanny grasses joined the still audible and irritating pounding of the distant breakers.
I would frequently pause and put my hands to my ears for relief, but could never quite shut out the detestable sound.