I resumed my reading with the entry of February 10.

This morning, having grown very tired of fish, of which I get plenty every time I go out in the boat by dragging a line behind, I decided to stay ashore and hunt pig.  I set out across the base of the point, nearly due south—­whereas I had been working along the coast to the north of the cove.  On my right the slope of the mountain rose steeply, and as I approached the south shore the rise of the peak became more abrupt, and great jutting crags leaned out over the tree-tops below.

I reached the edge of the cliffs and found that on my right hand the mountain dropped in a sheer precipice from hundreds of feet above me straight into the sea.  I considered, and made up my mind that by striking back some distance one might by a very rough climb gain the top of the precipice, and so swing around the shoulder of the mountain.  I did not feel inclined to attempt it.  The cliffs at this point offered no means of descent, and the few yards of sand which the receding tide had left bare at their foot led nowhere.

So far I had seen no pig, and I began to think they must all be feeding on the other side of the island.  I turned to go back, and at that moment I heard an outcry in the bushes and Benjy came tearing out at the heels of a fine young porker.  I threw up my gun to fire, but the evolutions of Benjy and the pig were such that I was as likely to hit one as the other.  The pig, of course, made desperate efforts to escape from the cul-de-sac in which he found himself.  His only hope was to get back into the woods on the point.  Benjy kept him headed off successfully, and I began to edge up, watching my chance for a shot.  Suddenly the pig came dashing straight toward me—­oblivious, I suppose, to everything but the white snapping terror at his heels.  Taken by surprise, I fired—­and missed.  The pig shot between my knees, Benjy after him.  I withstood the shock of the pig, but not of Benjy.  I fell, clawing wildly, into a matted mass of creepers that covered the ground beside me.

I got to my feet quickly, dragging the whole mass of vines up with me.  Then I saw that they had covered a curiously regular little patch of ground, outlined at intervals with small stones.  At one end was a larger stone.

The patch was narrow, about six feet long—­instantly suggestive of a grave.  But swift beyond all process of reason was the certainty that flashed into my mind.  I fell on my knees beside the stone at the head and pulled away the torn vine-tendrils.  I saw the letters B. H. and an attempt at cross-bones rudely cut into the surface of the stone.

I closed my eyes and tried to steady myself.  I thought, I am seeing things. This is the mere projection of the vision which has been in my mind so long.

I opened my eyes, and lo, the fantasy, if fantasy it were, remained.  I smote with my fist upon the stone.  The stone was solid—­it bruised the flesh.  And as I saw the blood run, I screamed aloud like a madman, “It’s real, real, real!”