The more I thought of it the more certain I became that he had made a little too much noise with his oars as he rowed away.  So I remained, lying in the mud and shivering.  I shivered till the muscles of the small of my back ached and pained me as badly as the cold, and I had need of all my self-control to force myself to remain in my miserable situation.

It was well that I did, however, for, possibly an hour later, I thought I could make out something moving on the beach.  I watched intently, but my ears were rewarded first, by a raspy cough I knew only too well.  Yellow Handkerchief had sneaked back, landed on the other side of the island, and crept around to surprise me if I had returned.

After that, though hours passed without sign of him, I was afraid to return to the island at all.  On the other hand, I was almost equally afraid that I should die of the exposure I was undergoing.  I had never dreamed one could suffer so.  I grew so cold and numb, finally, that I ceased to shiver.  But my muscles and bones began to ache in a way that was agony.  The tide had long since begun to rise and, foot by foot, it drove me in toward the beach.  High water came at three o’clock, and at three o’clock I drew myself up on the beach, more dead than alive, and too helpless to have offered any resistance had Yellow Handkerchief swooped down upon me.

But no Yellow Handkerchief appeared.  He had given me up and gone back to Point Pedro.  Nevertheless, I was in a deplorable, not to say a dangerous, condition.  I could not stand upon my feet, much less walk.  My clammy, muddy garments clung to me like sheets of ice.  I thought I should never get them off.  So numb and lifeless were my fingers, and so weak was I that it seemed to take an hour to get off my shoes.  I had not the strength to break the porpoise-hide laces, and the knots defied me.  I repeatedly beat my hands upon the rocks to get some sort of life into them.  Sometimes I felt sure I was going to die.

But in the end,—­after several centuries, it seemed to me,—­I got off the last of my clothes.  The water was now close at hand, and I crawled painfully into it and washed the mud from my naked body.  Still, I could not get on my feet and walk and I was afraid to lie still.  Nothing remained but to crawl weakly, like a snail, and at the cost of constant pain, up and down the sand.  I kept this up as long as possible, but as the east paled with the coming of dawn I began to succumb.  The sky grew rosy-red, and the golden rim of the sun, showing above the horizon, found me lying helpless and motionless among the clam-shells.

As in a dream, I saw the familiar mainsail of the Reindeer as she slipped out of San Rafael Creek on a light puff of morning air.  This dream was very much broken.  There are intervals I can never recollect on looking back over it.  Three things, however, I distinctly remember:  the first sight of the Reindeer’s mainsail; her lying at anchor a few hundred feet away and a small boat leaving her side; and the cabin stove roaring red-hot, myself swathed all over with blankets, except on the chest and shoulders, which Charley was pounding and mauling unmercifully, and my mouth and throat burning with the coffee which Neil Partington was pouring down a trifle too hot.