And, throwing aside the end of the lasso which he has just seized, he
again folds his arms on his breast, and closes his eyes once more.

I know not what stoical philosopher--Atticus, I believe, a prey to a
malady which he thought incurable,--had resolved to die of inanition.
At the expiration of a certain number of days, abstinence had cured
him, and when his friends, in the number of whom he reckoned Cicero,
exhorted him to take nourishment, persisting in his first resolution,
'Of what use is it!' said he also, 'Must I not die sooner or later?
Why should I then retrace my steps, when I have already travelled more
than half the road?'

Selkirk had more reason than Atticus to decide thus; besides, his
friends, where are they, to exhort him to live? Friends!--has he ever
had any?

Night comes, and with the night a terrific hurricane arises. By the
glare of the lightning he sees a tree, situated not far from the
tunnel, bend towards him, almost broken by the violence of the wind.

'Perhaps Providence will send me a method of saving myself!' murmured
Selkirk; 'should the tree fall on this side, if its branches do not
crush me, they will serve as steps to aid me to leave this pit! I am
saved!'

But the tree resists the storm, which passes away, carrying with it
the last hope of the captive.

Towards the morning of the fourth day his fever has ceased; the
tortures of hunger and thirst are no longer felt; the complete
annihilation of his strength is to him a kind of relief; sleep seizes
him, and with sleep he thinks death must come.

Soon, in his dream, in a hallucination springing undoubtedly from the
weakness of his brain, plaints, confused and distant groans, reach him
from different points of the island. These sorrowful cries, almost
uninterrupted, afterwards approach, and are repeated with increasing
strength. He awakes, he listens; the bushes around him crackle and
rustle; even the earth emits a dull sound, as beneath the bounding of
a goat; the cries are renewed and become more and more distinct, like
the sobs of a child. Selkirk puts his hand to his forehead. These
plaints, these sobs, he thinks he recognizes, and, suddenly raising
himself with a convulsive effort, he exclaims:

'Marimonda!'

And Marimonda runs at her master's voice, changes, on seeing him, her
cries of distress for cries of joy, leaps and gambols on the edge of
the cavity, and, quickly finding a way to join him, suspends herself
by her