sing.

When I arrived at the ruins I soon discerned what had taken place. The
lightning had struck it last night, and what felt to me like an
earthquake was the explosion of my large cask of gunpowder. The
boathouse was a complete ruin, and the ruin involved the loss of many
things of great value to me, among them being my canoe, most of my lamp
oil, paints, and above all, tools.

I was like the prophet Jeremiah weeping over Jerusalem, for I sat down
on a rock, and viewing the desolation around me, wept also. Then I dried
my wet cheeks, and there and then set about clearing the ruin. But it
was a great task, and would take several days before I could clear the
debris and recover such goods and chattels as were not totally
destroyed. I dug, I heaved over great masses of granite wall which had
been tumbled inward and outward by the explosion, I sawed through beams
and hacked through rafters with an axe, but my thoughts were not
altogether with my work.

Every man has a skeleton in his cupboard, but I had more; I had a whole
carcase lying near my house, and this occupied my mind as much as my
labour. As I thought of it, so the harder I worked, but to no purpose,
and presently, for a spell of breathing, I sat down, axe in hand, upon a
beam, and resolved to decide there and then what to do.

During the daylight I did not so much mind my dread visitor, but it was
the approaching night I did not like. Why are we so much more in fear of
unseen things at night than during the day? Whence comes the spell of
dread that night brings beneath its black wing? Does darkness affect the
nerves of a blind man as it does that of one with his full visual
powers? I think not. Probably day and night are but as one to the blind.
Then why does darkness bring a certain awe to ordinary mortals?

But to resume the thread of my narrative.

It appeared to me that there were three courses open to me. I could fire
the cannon (I had a few pounds of powder in the store near the house)
and summon aid; I could dig a grave and bury the body; or I could hitch
on my donkey and drag it down to the water at low tide, and let it be
washed whithersoever the sea should take it.

I did not like either of these plans. If I fired the cannon it would
bring a posse of curious, prying people to the island, and probably I
should be taken away to St. Peter Port upon a coroner's quest. If I
buried the man I should always shun that part of the island, and should
ha