OR THE DESERT ISLAND. 93

had now changed into a burning fever. With slow steps he
traversed the parched sand. Encompassed by the barren
and frightful rocks of which the isle was almost wholly
composed, he could not forbear contrasting them with his
father’s park, and the verdant and flowery meadows and
fields which environned his magnificent mansion.

“T shall never again see them,” he murmured; “I shall
die on the flinty rock, without solace from any living crea-
ture.” A thousand agonizing reminiscences rushed into
his imagination : the brilliant fétes at his father’s chateau;
the numerous retinue of servants; its sumptuous apart-
ments ; the horses and equipages ; that eagerness of all to
satisfy his every wish. ‘All this,” said he, “is but a
dream, and a frightful one too, leaving nothing behind it
but gloomy and afflicting thoughts.”

Suddenly the image of his mother appeared to his fancy,
and inflamed his imagination yet more. ‘And you, my
tender mother, you whom I have so often beheld carrying
to the bedside of the poor and the sick both the comforts
and the delicacies of life, what would be your feelings,
could you but see that son, you once too dearly cherished,
on this burning and desolate coast? What enormous crime
have I perpetrated, that I should be left to die without the
presence of a human being to comfort me? Never again