As mariners, tost in tempest on some desolate ledge, patch them a boat out of the remnants of their vessel’s wreck, and launch it in the self-same waves, see here Hunilla, this lone shipwrecked soul, out of treachery invoking trust.  Humanity, thou strong thing, I worship thee, not in the laureled victor, but in this vanquished one.

Truly Hunilla leaned upon a reed, a real one; no metaphor; a real Eastern reed.  A piece of hollow cane, drifted from unknown isles, and found upon the beach, its once jagged ends rubbed smoothly even as by sand-paper; its golden glazing gone.  Long ground between the sea and land, upper and nether stone, the unvarnished substance was filed bare, and wore another polish now, one with itself, the polish of its agony.  Circular lines at intervals cut all round this surface, divided it into six panels of unequal length.  In the first were scored the days, each tenth one marked by a longer and deeper notch; the second was scored for the number of sea-fowl eggs for sustenance, picked out from the rocky nests; the third, how many fish had been caught from the shore; the fourth, how many small tortoises found inland; the fifth, how many days of sun; the sixth, of clouds; which last, of the two, was the greater one.  Long night of busy numbering, misery’s mathematics, to weary her too-wakeful soul to sleep; yet sleep for that was none.

The panel of the days was deeply worn—­the long tenth notches half effaced, as alphabets of the blind.  Ten thousand times the longing widow had traced her finger over the bamboo—­dull flute, which played, on, gave no sound—­as if counting birds flown by in air would hasten tortoises creeping through the woods.

After the one hundred and eightieth day no further mark was seen; that last one was the faintest, as the first the deepest.

“There were more days,” said our Captain; “many, many more; why did you not go on and notch them, too, Hunilla?”

“Senor, ask me not.”

“And meantime, did no other vessel pass the isle?”

“Nay, Senor;—­but—­”

“You do not speak; but what, Hunilla?”

“Ask me not, Senor.”

“You saw ships pass, far away; you waved to them; they passed on;—­was that it, Hunilla?”

“Senor, be it as you say.”

Braced against her woe, Hunilla would not, durst not trust the weakness of her tongue.  Then when our Captain asked whether any whale-boats had—­

But no, I will not file this thing complete for scoffing souls to quote, and call it firm proof upon their side.  The half shall here remain untold.  Those two unnamed events which befell Hunilla on this isle, let them abide between her and her God.  In nature, as in law, it may be libelous to speak some truths.

Still, how it was that, although our vessel had lain three days anchored nigh the isle, its one human tenant should not have discovered us till just upon the point of sailing, never to revisit so lone and far a spot, this needs explaining ere the sequel come.