So, too, had Peter--and I didn't know yet what
he had managed to do to Peter--but I guessed from his journal that
Peter had been a slightly morbid person. He had let the wild
solitude of the island frighten him. He had indulged foolish
fancies about crucifixes. He had in fact let the defenses of his
will be undermined ever so little--and then of course there was no
telling what They could do to you.
With an impatient shiver I got up quickly from my knees. What
abominable nonsense I had been talking--was there a miasma about
that old grave that affected one? I whistled to Crusoe, who was
trotting busily about on mysterious intelligence conveyed to him by
his nose. He ran to me joyfully, and I stooped and patted his warm
vigorous body.
"Let Bill walk, Crusoe," I remarked, "let him! He needn't be a dog
in the manger about the treasure, anyhow."
Now came the moment which I had been trying not to think about. I
had to find the entrance to the cave, and then go into it or part
with my own esteem forever. I went and peered over the cliff. I
had an unacknowledged hope that the shelf of which Peter had
written had been rent off by some cataclysm and that I could not
possibly get down to the doorway in the rock. My hope was vain.
The ledge was there--not an inviting ledge, nor one on which the
unacrobatically inclined would have any impulse to saunter, but a
perfectly good ledge, on which I had not the slightest excuse for
declining to venture.
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