Now. 6. Disappointed! Made sure of truffles after rain. None. No grub.
I get weaker and weaker. Can hardly crawl.
Now. 11. Done up! Lay down and went to sleep. No sign from shore. The good Lord pity me in my weakness!
Novr. 12. Never thought I could get so weak and live. No sign anywhere.
Must try to catch some big green frogs—good food.
Novr. 13. So awfully weak.
Novr. 14. Too weak to look out for . . . (the writing becomes unintelligible). Wrote my old friend . . . making over all property here to him absolutely. Blowing too hard for punt. I dare not try to walk I'd never get back.
The final entry is dated Nov. 15th:
"Caught three big frogs, cleaned and stewed them—delicious—like chicken! What fools we are with our likes and dislikes!"
They searched the adjacent island and the coastline, and finally concluded that the Recluse, having made a desperate attempt to reach the mainland in his wretched punt, had become overcome with exhaustion, and had drifted away to drown when the boat swamped in the breakers.
Six weeks or so after the date of the final entry in the diary a Chinese fisherman found a punt near the mouth of a mangrove creek on the mainland. In it was a skeleton, a fish spear, some empty oyster shells. A few fair hairs adhered to patches of dried skin on the skull.
So the tale is told—a brief, passionate love idyll a strange, tedious, and tragic epilogue.