{"id":"01KG8AKSENT63SNF27JPDA51MQ","cid":"bafkreiganuzdnmgtoholsrjpfhqg3deofcgqclxz7ar3bpbvysseoc4nga","type":"chunk","properties":{"end_line":7244,"extracted_at":"2026-01-30T20:48:15.027Z","extracted_by":"structure-extraction-lambda","label":"Chunk 5","source_file":"01KG89J1F4D8P9BBX9AMGZ7TX7","start_line":7173,"text":"loved voice she could have heard.\r\n\r\nNo wonder, that as her thoughts now wandered to the unreturning ship,\r\nand were beaten back again, the hope against hope so struggled in her\r\nsoul, that at length she desperately said, “Not yet, not yet; my\r\nfoolish heart runs on too fast.” So she forced patience for some\r\nfurther weeks. But to those whom earth’s sure indraft draws, patience\r\nor impatience is still the same.\r\n\r\nHunilla now sought to settle precisely in her mind, to an hour, how\r\nlong it was since the ship had sailed; and then, with the same\r\nprecision, how long a space remained to pass. But this proved\r\nimpossible. What present day or month it was she could not say. Time\r\nwas her labyrinth, in which Hunilla was entirely lost.\r\n\r\nAnd now follows—\r\n\r\nAgainst my own purposes a pause descends upon me here. One knows not\r\nwhether nature doth not impose some secrecy upon him who has been privy\r\nto certain things. At least, it is to be doubted whether it be good to\r\nblazon such. If some books are deemed most baneful and their sale\r\nforbid, how, then, with deadlier facts, not dreams of doting men? Those\r\nwhom books will hurt will not be proof against events. Events, not\r\nbooks, should be forbid. But in all things man sows upon the wind,\r\nwhich bloweth just there whither it listeth; for ill or good, man\r\ncannot know. Often ill comes from the good, as good from ill.\r\n\r\nWhen Hunilla—\r\n\r\nDire sight it is to see some silken beast long dally with a golden\r\nlizard ere she devour. More terrible, to see how feline Fate will\r\nsometimes dally with a human soul, and by a nameless magic make it\r\nrepulse a sane despair with a hope which is but mad. Unwittingly I imp\r\nthis cat-like thing, sporting with the heart of him who reads; for if\r\nhe feel not he reads in vain.\r\n\r\n—“The ship sails this day, to-day,” at last said Hunilla to herself;\r\n“this gives me certain time to stand on; without certainty I go mad. In\r\nloose ignorance I have hoped and hoped; now in firm knowledge I will\r\nbut wait. Now I live and no longer perish in bewilderings. Holy Virgin,\r\naid me! Thou wilt waft back the ship. Oh, past length of weary\r\nweeks—all to be dragged over—to buy the certainty of to-day, I freely\r\ngive ye, though I tear ye from me!”\r\n\r\nAs mariners, tost in tempest on some desolate ledge, patch them a boat\r\nout of the remnants of their vessel’s wreck, and launch it in the\r\nself-same waves, see here Hunilla, this lone shipwrecked soul, out of\r\ntreachery invoking trust. Humanity, thou strong thing, I worship thee,\r\nnot in the laureled victor, but in this vanquished one.\r\n\r\nTruly Hunilla leaned upon a reed, a real one; no metaphor; a real\r\nEastern reed. A piece of hollow cane, drifted from unknown isles, and\r\nfound upon the beach, its once jagged ends rubbed smoothly even as by\r\nsand-paper; its golden glazing gone. Long ground between the sea and\r\nland, upper and nether stone, the unvarnished substance was filed bare,\r\nand wore another polish now, one with itself, the polish of its agony.\r\nCircular lines at intervals cut all round this surface, divided it into\r\nsix panels of unequal length. In the first were scored the days, each\r\ntenth one marked by a longer and deeper notch; the second was scored\r\nfor the number of sea-fowl eggs for sustenance, picked out from the\r\nrocky nests; the third, how many fish had been caught from the shore;\r\nthe fourth, how many small tortoises found inland; the fifth, how many\r\ndays of sun; the sixth, of clouds; which last, of the two, was the\r\ngreater one. Long night of busy numbering, misery’s mathematics, to\r\nweary her too-wakeful soul to sleep; yet sleep for that was none.\r\n\r\nThe panel of the days was deeply worn—the long tenth notches half\r\neffaced, as alphabets of the blind. Ten thousand times the longing\r\nwidow had traced her finger over the bamboo—dull flute, which played,\r\non, gave no sound—as if counting birds flown by in air would hasten\r\ntortoises creeping through the woods.\r\n\r","title":"Chunk 5"},"relationships":[{"peer":"01KG8AJKV9Q5HYKXE3Z1AK9FFY","peer_type":"chapter","predicate":"in"},{"peer":"01KG89J1F4D8P9BBX9AMGZ7TX7","peer_type":"file","predicate":"extractedFrom"},{"peer":"01KG89HMDZKNY753EZE1CJ8HZW","peer_type":"collection","predicate":"collection"},{"peer":"01KG8AKSEJPDRN2F1TY87XGA0M","peer_type":"chunk","predicate":"prev"},{"peer":"01KG8AKT0BD0FDZCH5RZMNNJDP","peer_type":"chunk","predicate":"next"}],"ver":2,"created_at":"2026-01-30T20:48:15.829Z","ts":"2026-01-30T20:48:29.541Z","edited_by":{"method":"manual","user_id":"01KFF0H3YRP9ZSM033AM0QJ47H"}}