don’t know.”
“Nor I.”
“But it must be somewhere.”
“True enough.”
“Let some one steer for it.”
“We have no pilot.”
“Stand to the tiller yourself.”
“We have lost the tiller.”
“Let’s make one. Nails – a hammer – quick – some tools.”
“The carpenter’s box is overboard, we have no tools.”
“We’ll steer all the same, no matter where.”
“The rudder is lost.”
“We’ll row the wreck.”
“We have lost the oars.”
“We’ll sail.”
“We have lost the sails and the mast.”
“We’ll make one.”
“There is no wind.”
The wind, indeed, had left them, the storm had fled; and its departure, which they had believed to mean safety, meant, in fact, destruction. The swiftness of the storm might enable them to reach land; but no more wind, no more hope. They were going to die because the hurricane was over. The end was near! The snow was falling, and as the wreck was now motionless.
The chief said,
“Let us lighten the wreck.”
They took the luggage, and threw it over the gunwale. Thus they emptied the cabin. The lantern, the cap, the barrels, the sacks, the bales, and the water-butts, the pot of soup, all went over into the waves.
The wreck was lightened, it was sinking more slowly, but none the less surely.
“Is there anything else we can throw overboard?”
“Yes”, said the old man.
“What?” asked the chief.
“Our Crime. Let us throw our crimes into the sea, they weigh us down; it is they that are sinking the ship. Our last crime, above all, the crime which we committed.”
The old man put down the pen and inkhorn on the hood of the companion, unfolded the parchment, and said, -
“Listen.”
The doomed men bowed their heads around him. What he read was written in English. The wreck was sinking more and more. He signed himself. Then, turning towards the others, he said, -
“Come, and sign.”
The Basque woman approached, took the pen, and signed herself. She handed the pen to the Irish woman, who, not knowing how to write, made a cross. Then she handed the pen to the chief of the band. The chief signed. The Genoese signed himself under the chief’s name. The others signed, too.
Then they folded the parchment and put it into the flask. The wreck was sinking. The old man said, -
“Now we are going to die.”
All knelt down. They knelt. They had but a few minutes more.
The wreck was going down. As it sank, the old man murmured the prayer. For an instant his shoulders were above water, then his head, then nothing remained but his arm holding up the flask.
The snow continued falling. One thing floated, and was carried by the waves into the darkness. It was the tarred flask.
THE CHILD IN THE SHADOW
The storm was no less severe on land than on sea. The same wild enfranchisement of the elements had taken place around the abandoned child. On the land there was but little wind. There was an inexplicable dumbness in the cold. There was no hail. The thickness of the falling snow was fearful. The child continued to advance into the mist. The child was fighting against unknown dangers. He did not hesitate. He went round the rocks, avoided the crevices, guessed at the pitfalls, obeyed the twistings and turnings caused by such obstacles, yet he went on. Though unable to advance in a straight line, he walked with a firm step. When necessary, he drew back with energy. He was still tormented by hunger.
He was saved from the isthmus; but he found himself again face to face with the tempest, with the cold, with the night. Before him once more lay the plain, shapeless in the density of impenetrable shadow. He examined the ground, seeking a footpath. Suddenly he bent down. He had discovered, in the snow, something. It was a track – the print of a foot. He examined it. It was a naked foot; too small for that of a man, too large for that of a child.
It was probably the foot of a woman. Beyond that mark was another, then another, then another. The footprints followed each other at the distance of a step. They were still fresh, and slightly covered with little snow.
This woman was walking in the direction in which the child had seen the smoke. With his eyes fixed on the footprints, he set himself to follow them.
He journeyed some time along this course. Unfortunately the footprints were becoming less and less distinct. Dense and fearful was the falling of the snow.
Suddenly, whether the snow had filled them up or for some other reason, the footsteps ceased. There was now nothing but a white cloth drawn over the earth and a black one over the sky. The child, in despair, bent down and searched; but in vain.
As he arose he had a sensation of hearing some indistinct sound, but he could not be sure of it. It resembled a voice, a breath, a shadow. It was more human than animal. It was a sound, but the sound of a dream.
He looked, but saw nothing. He listened. Nothing. He still listened. All was silent. There was illusion in the mist.
He went on his way again. He walked forward at random[21], with nothing henceforth to guide him.
As he moved away the noise began again. It was a groan, almost a sob.
He turned. He searched the darkness of space with his eyes. He saw nothing. The sound arose once more.
Nothing so penetrating, so piercing, so feeble as the voice – for it was a voice. It was an appeal of suffering. The child fixed his attention everywhere, far, near, on high, below. There was no one. There was nothing. He listened. The voice arose again. He perceived it distinctly. The sound somewhat resembled the bleating of a lamb.
Then he was frightened. The groan again. This was the fourth time. It was strangely miserable and plaintive. The child approached in the direction from whence the sound came. Still he saw nothing. He advanced again, watchfully.
The complaint continued. Inarticulate and confused as it was, it had become clear. The child was near the voice; but where was it?
Suddenly he perceived in the snow at his feet, a few steps before him, a sort of undulation of the dimensions of a human body. At the same time the voice cried out. It was from beneath the undulation. The child bent down, crouching before the undulation, and with both his hands began to clear
at random – наугад
