The convict continued to gaze out over the ocean. Far away, a dark
fringe broke the sea-line--a suggestion of foliage--an island, or a
mirage? Tantalizing, it lay like a shadow, illusive, unattainable as the
"forgotten isles." The man staggered to his feet; his garments were
torn; his hair hung over his brow. He shook his arms at the
island;--this phantasy, this vain, empty vision, he regarded it now as
some savage creature might a bone just out of its reach; from his lips
vile words fell--to be suddenly hushed. Between him and what he gazed
at, along the range of vision, an object on one of the projecting
timbers caught his eye. It was very small, but it gleamed like a spark
sprung from the embers of the dawn.

"The dicky-bird!" His dried lips tried to laugh. "Ef it ain't the
dicky-bird!" The bird looked at him. "Ef that doesn't beat--" but he
could not think what it "beat." The bird cocked its head. "Ain't ye
afeard o' me?" It gave a feeble chirp. "Well, I'm damned!" said the man,
and after this mild expression of his feelings, forgot to curse again.
He even began to eye the island with a vague questioning wonder, as if
asking himself what means might be thought of that would enable him to
reach it; but the problem seemed to be beyond solution. The wreckage,
like a great lump, lay supinely on the surface of the water; he could
not hope to move it.

The day slowly passed; the sun dried his clothes; once or twice the bird
made a sound--a plaintive little tone--and involuntarily the man moved
with care, thinking not to frighten it. But caution in that regard
seemed unnecessary, for the bird appeared very tame and not at all
averse to company.

Toward noon the man began to suffer more acutely from thirst, and