the mountains, taking with him only his pipe, his Bible, and his
spy-glass.

He often pursues his journey as far as the oasis; there, he seats
himself at the extremity of the little valley, opposite the sea, from
which his eye can traverse its immense extent. He opens the holy book,
and closes it immediately; then, his brow reddening, he seizes his
spy-glass, levels it, and remains entire hours measuring the ocean,
wave by wave.

What is he looking for there? He seeks a sail, a sail which shall come
to his island and bear him from his desert, from his _ennui_. His
_ennui_ he can no longer dissimulate; this is the evil of his
solitude.

One day, while he was at this spot, the setting sun suddenly
illuminated a black point, against which the waves seemed to break in
foam, as against the prow of a ship; his eyes become dim, a tremor
seizes him. He looks again--keeps his glass for a long time fixed on
the same object, but the black point does not stir.

'Another illusion!' said he to himself; 'it is a reef, a rock which
the tide has left bare.'

He wipes the glasses of his spy-glass, he examines again; he seems to
see the waves whiten and whirl for a large space around this rock.

'Can it be an island? If an island, is it inhabited? I will construct
a barque, and if God has pity on me I will reach it.'