As he swam nearer he saw that great pointed peaks pierced the sky wherever he looked, while abrupt walls of rock rose from the water’s edge to the height of many hundred feet.
These he realized could not be scaled by him, and as he gazed on the gray, moss-covered rocks dripping with the spray of the ocean that continually beat against their rugged sides, hopelessness again came near overpowering him.
Above the granite front of this lonely island, as he believed it to be, he could see stupendous ridges of reddish earth rise in countless numbers and always running back toward the centre, with here and there green pastures of grass, but he looked in vain for a break in the adamantine barrier which made this ocean-bound realm unapproachable.
In his despair he was nearly overjoyed to suddenly see a boat, with two men in it, come around an angle of the rock-bound shore.
He shouted as loudly as he could in his exhausted state for help, and then gave up the battle, and sank.
But strong arms were near, and the boatmen, hearing his cries, rowed rapidly to his assistance and picked him up as he was going down for the last time.
When Jack recovered consciousness he found himself lying on a rude couch, with a friendly face looking into his and his hand held by the same person.
“Well, here you are,” said the man. “I had about given up looking for you to come out of it. You must have had a long, hard pull against the sea.”
“Where am I?” asked Jack. “Who are you?”
“You are on the island of Robinson Crusoe. As to myself, I am an American by the name of William Pearce. Before I shall ask you even your name I shall advise you to keep quiet and go to sleep if you can. You are among friends.”