Then a last embrace, a hasty kiss, and he hurried away to the bay. Ten minutes later the house was surrounded by soldiers.
CHAPTER XIII.
LEFT ALONE.
Yes, 'twill be over soon,--This sickly dream
Of life will vanish from my brain;
And death my wearied spirit will redeem
From this wild region of unvaried pain.
--WHITE.
For fifteen years John Stevens and Blanche Holmes had lived on the Island of Desolation, and in all that time not a sign of a sail had appeared on the vast ocean. Not a sight of a human being had greeted their eyes, and they had become somewhat reconciled to the idea of passing their lives on this island. The soil in the valley was fertile and yielded abundance to moderate tillage. John studied the seasons and knew when to plant to receive the benefits of the rains. There was no winter in this tropical clime, the rainy season taking the place of winter. The sails and clothing which they had brought from the wreck had been husbanded and made to last as long as possible; and then Blanche, who was industrious, spun and wove cloth for both from the fibre of a coarse weed like hemp. Her wheel and loom were rude affairs constructed by John Stevens, who, thanks to his early experience as a pioneer, knew how to make all useful household implements. When their shoes were worn out he tanned the skins of goats and made them moccasins, and he even wore a jacket of goat's skin.