The regrets which arise in his heart he quickly banishes; his dear remembrances he sacrifices to God; he weaves them into a fervent prayer.

Very soon an approaching bleating rouses him again from his abstractions.  A goat, with restless eye, has just stretched her head over the edge of the precipice, and for an instant fixes on him her astonished glance.  Then, as if re-assured, defying his powerlessness, with a disdainful lip she quietly crops some tufts of grass growing on the verge of the tunnel.

On seeing her, Selkirk instinctively lays his hand on the lasso which is beside him.

‘If I succeed in reaching her, in catching her,’ said he, ’her blood will quench the thirst which devours me, her flesh will appease my hunger.  But of what use would it be?  Whence can I expect aid and succor for my deliverance?  This would then only prolong my sufferings.’

And, throwing aside the end of the lasso which he has just seized, he again folds his arms on his breast, and closes his eyes once more.

I know not what stoical philosopher—­Atticus, I believe, a prey to a malady which he thought incurable,—­had resolved to die of inanition.  At the expiration of a certain number of days, abstinence had cured him, and when his friends, in the number of whom he reckoned Cicero, exhorted him to take nourishment, persisting in his first resolution, ‘Of what use is it!’ said he also, ’Must I not die sooner or later?  Why should I then retrace my steps, when I have already travelled more than half the road?’

Selkirk had more reason than Atticus to decide thus; besides, his friends, where are they, to exhort him to live?  Friends!—­has he ever had any?

Night comes, and with the night a terrific hurricane arises.  By the glare of the lightning he sees a tree, situated not far from the tunnel, bend towards him, almost broken by the violence of the wind.

‘Perhaps Providence will send me a method of saving myself!’ murmured Selkirk; ’should the tree fall on this side, if its branches do not crush me, they will serve as steps to aid me to leave this pit!  I am saved!’

But the tree resists the storm, which passes away, carrying with it the last hope of the captive.

Towards the morning of the fourth day his fever has ceased; the tortures of hunger and thirst are no longer felt; the complete annihilation of his strength is to him a kind of relief; sleep seizes him, and with sleep he thinks death must come.

Soon, in his dream, in a hallucination springing undoubtedly from the weakness of his brain, plaints, confused and distant groans, reach him from different points of the island.  These sorrowful cries, almost uninterrupted, afterwards approach, and are repeated with increasing strength.  He awakes, he listens; the bushes around him crackle and rustle; even the earth emits a dull sound, as beneath the bounding of a goat; the cries are renewed and become more and more distinct, like the sobs of a child.  Selkirk puts his hand to his forehead.  These plaints, these sobs, he thinks he recognizes, and, suddenly raising himself with a convulsive effort, he exclaims: