I was alone.
There is no need to say that I was plunged in despair.
Revived by a burning fever, my wound began to give me terrible pain.
Tossing every moment on the great waves that the north wind had raised up, and which were growing higher momentarily, the schooner leaped wildly forward.
This ploughing the sea caused me such agony that I could scarcely help screaming aloud. The doctor came to see how I was getting on, and from childish obstinacy I hid my suffering.
The man was paid for his services by Falmouth. I was determined to accept his services no longer.
What hours I passed! Great God, it was horrible!
The excitement that I had undergone, added to the fever, had raised my nervous sensibility to such a degree that, doubled up in bed, I hid my face in my hands, for the light was intolerable to me, and I wept bitterly. Usually tears were a relief to me, but these were bitter and scalding.
Then, when my despair was at its height, I contrasted it, in my usual way, with my sensations of only a few hours before. I compared that which was with that which had been,—that which might have been,—had I not with my own hand crushed, blighted, deliberately destroyed so many new opportunities for happiness!
Instead of hiding my shame in solitude and darkness, instead of these dreary and sad thoughts and this isolation which my own outrageous conduct had brought upon me, I should be tranquilly seated by my friend,—my heart filled with grateful affection.