Fiction > Book editions > London, 1886 - Kidnapped

122
CHAPTER   XIV.
THE   ISLET.
WITH my stepping ashore I began the most unhappy
part of my adventures. It was half-past twelve in the
morning, and though the wind was broken by the land,
it was a cold night. I dared not sit down (for I
thought I should have frozen), but took off my shoes
and walked to and fro upon the sand, barefoot, and beating
my breast, with infinite weariness. There was no sound
of man or cattle; not a cock crew, though it was about the
hour of their first waking; only the surf broke outside
in the distance, which put me in mind of my perils and
those of my friend. To walk by the sea at that hour
of the morning, and in a place so desert-like and lone-
some, struck me with a kind of fear.
As soon as the day began to break I put on my
shoes and climbed a hill�the ruggedest scramble I ever
undertook�falling, the whole way, between big blocks
of granite or leaping from one to another. When I
got to the top the dawn was come. There was no
sign of the brig, which must have lifted from the reef
and sunk. The boat, too, was nowhere to be seen.
There was never a sail upon the ocean; and in what I
could see of the land, was neither house nor man.