"I took care to mark down every day on the blank leaves of my
pocket-book. I had now marked thirty days of my wandering life on the
border of the river, for I never strayed beyond the sound of its waters.
Still I kept continually advancing towards the interior of the island. I
had yet met with nothing alarming, and the weather had been most
favourable; but we were not long to enjoy this comfort. The rainy season
came on: and one night, to my great distress, I heard it descend in
torrents. We were no longer under our fig-tree, which would have
sheltered us for a considerable time. The tree under which we now were
had tempted me by having several cavities between the roots, filled with
soft moss, which formed natural couches, but the foliage was very thin,
and we were soon drenched completely. I crept near my poor children to
protect them a little, but in vain; our little bed was soon filled with
water, and we were compelled to leave it. Our clothes were so heavy with
the rain that we could scarcely stand; and the night was so dark that we
could see no road, and ran the risk of falling, or striking against some
tree, if we moved. My children wept, and I trembled for their health,
and for my own, which was so necessary to them. This was one of the most
terrible nights of my pilgrimage.
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