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- 7279
- extracted_at
- 2026-01-30T07:57:55.413Z
- extracted_by
- structure-extraction-lambda
- start_line
- 7200
- text
- When Hunilla—
Dire sight it is to see some silken beast long dally with a golden
lizard ere she devour. More terrible, to see how feline Fate will
sometimes dally with a human soul, and by a nameless magic make it
repulse a sane despair with a hope which is but mad. Unwittingly I imp
this cat-like thing, sporting with the heart of him who reads; for if
he feel not he reads in vain.
—“The ship sails this day, to-day,” at last said Hunilla to herself;
“this gives me certain time to stand on; without certainty I go mad. In
loose ignorance I have hoped and hoped; now in firm knowledge I will
but wait. Now I live and no longer perish in bewilderings. Holy Virgin,
aid me! Thou wilt waft back the ship. Oh, past length of weary
weeks—all to be dragged over—to buy the certainty of to-day, I freely
give ye, though I tear ye from me!”
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?”
“Señor, ask me not.”
“And meantime, did no other vessel pass the isle?”
“Nay, Señor;—but—”
“You do not speak; but _what_, Hunilla?”
“Ask me not, Señor.”
“You saw ships pass, far away; you waved to them; they passed on;—was
that it, Hunilla?”
“Señor, 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.
- title
- Chunk 5