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- 7307
- extracted_at
- 2026-01-30T20:48:15.027Z
- extracted_by
- structure-extraction-lambda
- start_line
- 7236
- text
- 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.
The place where the French captain had landed the little party was on
the further and opposite end of the isle. There, too, it was that they
had afterwards built their hut. Nor did the widow in her solitude
desert the spot where her loved ones had dwelt with her, and where the
dearest of the twain now slept his last long sleep, and all her plaints
awaked him not, and he of husbands the most faithful during life.
Now, high, broken land rises between the opposite extremities of the
isle. A ship anchored at one side is invisible from the other. Neither
is the isle so small, but a considerable company might wander for days
through the wilderness of one side, and never be seen, or their halloos
heard, by any stranger holding aloof on the other. Hence Hunilla, who
naturally associated the possible coming of ships with her own part of
the isle, might to the end have remained quite ignorant of the presence
of our vessel, were it not for a mysterious presentiment, borne to her,
so our mariners averred, by this isle’s enchanted air. Nor did the
widow’s answer undo the thought.
“How did you come to cross the isle this morning, then, Hunilla?” said
our Captain.
“Señor, something came flitting by me. It touched my cheek, my heart,
Señor.”
“What do you say, Hunilla?”
“I have said, Señor, something came through the air.”
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- Chunk 6