{"id":"01KG8AKSE74R50BTP75X4TR7E1","cid":"bafkreihr2bunzedsftolfrtlbiennyg6oher4easwlo7kk4mnmttp2r5yi","type":"chunk","properties":{"end_line":7028,"extracted_at":"2026-01-30T20:48:15.027Z","extracted_by":"structure-extraction-lambda","label":"Chunk 1","source_file":"01KG89J1F4D8P9BBX9AMGZ7TX7","start_line":6946,"text":"SKETCH EIGHTH.\r\nNORFOLK ISLE AND THE CHOLA WIDOW.\r\n\r\n“At last they in an island did espy\r\nA seemly woman sitting by the shore,\r\nThat with great sorrow and sad agony\r\nSeemed some great misfortune to deplore;\r\nAnd loud to them for succor called evermore.”\r\n\r\n“Black his eye as the midnight sky.\r\nWhite his neck as the driven snow,\r\nRed his cheek as the morning light;—\r\nCold he lies in the ground below.\r\nMy love is dead,\r\nGone to his death-bed, ys\r\nAll under the cactus tree.”\r\n\r\n“Each lonely scene shall thee restore,\r\nFor thee the tear be duly shed;\r\nBelov’d till life can charm no more,\r\nAnd mourned till Pity’s self be dead.”\r\n\r\n\r\nFar to the northeast of Charles’s Isle, sequestered from the rest, lies\r\nNorfolk Isle; and, however insignificant to most voyagers, to me,\r\nthrough sympathy, that lone island has become a spot made sacred by the\r\nstrangest trials of humanity.\r\n\r\nIt was my first visit to the Encantadas. Two days had been spent ashore\r\nin hunting tortoises. There was not time to capture many; so on the\r\nthird afternoon we loosed our sails. We were just in the act of getting\r\nunder way, the uprooted anchor yet suspended and invisibly swaying\r\nbeneath the wave, as the good ship gradually turned her heel to leave\r\nthe isle behind, when the seaman who heaved with me at the windlass\r\npaused suddenly, and directed my attention to something moving on the\r\nland, not along the beach, but somewhat back, fluttering from a height.\r\n\r\nIn view of the sequel of this little story, be it here narrated how it\r\ncame to pass, that an object which partly from its being so small was\r\nquite lost to every other man on board, still caught the eye of my\r\nhandspike companion. The rest of the crew, myself included, merely\r\nstood up to our spikes in heaving, whereas, unwontedly exhilarated, at\r\nevery turn of the ponderous windlass, my belted comrade leaped atop of\r\nit, with might and main giving a downward, thewey, perpendicular heave,\r\nhis raised eye bent in cheery animation upon the slowly receding shore.\r\nBeing high lifted above all others was the reason he perceived the\r\nobject, otherwise unperceivable; and this elevation of his eye was\r\nowing to the elevation of his spirits; and this again—for truth must\r\nout—to a dram of Peruvian pisco, in guerdon for some kindness done,\r\nsecretly administered to him that morning by our mulatto steward. Now,\r\ncertainly, pisco does a deal of mischief in the world; yet seeing that,\r\nin the present case, it was the means, though indirect, of rescuing a\r\nhuman being from the most dreadful fate, must we not also needs admit\r\nthat sometimes pisco does a deal of good?\r\n\r\nGlancing across the water in the direction pointed out, I saw some\r\nwhite thing hanging from an inland rock, perhaps half a mile from the\r\nsea.\r\n\r\n“It is a bird; a white-winged bird; perhaps a—no; it is—it is a\r\nhandkerchief!”\r\n\r\n“Ay, a handkerchief!” echoed my comrade, and with a louder shout\r\napprised the captain.\r\n\r\nQuickly now—like the running out and training of a great gun—the long\r\ncabin spy-glass was thrust through the mizzen rigging from the high\r\nplatform of the poop; whereupon a human figure was plainly seen upon\r\nthe inland rock, eagerly waving towards us what seemed to be the\r\nhandkerchief.\r\n\r\nOur captain was a prompt, good fellow. Dropping the glass, he lustily\r\nran forward, ordering the anchor to be dropped again; hands to stand by\r\na boat, and lower away.\r\n\r\nIn a half-hour’s time the swift boat returned. It went with six and\r\ncame with seven; and the seventh was a woman.\r\n\r\nIt is not artistic heartlessness, but I wish I could but draw in\r\ncrayons; for this woman was a most touching sight; and crayons, tracing\r\nsoftly melancholy lines, would best depict the mournful image of the\r\ndark-damasked Chola widow.\r\n\r","title":"Chunk 1"},"relationships":[{"peer":"01KG8AJKV9Q5HYKXE3Z1AK9FFY","peer_type":"chapter","predicate":"in"},{"peer":"01KG89J1F4D8P9BBX9AMGZ7TX7","peer_type":"file","predicate":"extractedFrom"},{"peer":"01KG89HMDZKNY753EZE1CJ8HZW","peer_type":"collection","predicate":"collection"},{"peer":"01KG8AKSEJYPRMCEPYVYE6RA6T","peer_type":"chunk","predicate":"next"}],"ver":2,"created_at":"2026-01-30T20:48:15.815Z","ts":"2026-01-30T20:48:29.490Z","edited_by":{"method":"manual","user_id":"01KFF0H3YRP9ZSM033AM0QJ47H"}}