Похищенный

           Butthecreek,orstrait,thatcutofftheislefromthemain-landoftheRoss,openedoutonthenorthintoabay,andthebayagainopenedintotheSoundofIona;anditwastheneighbourhoodofthisplacethatIchosetobemyhome;thoughifIhadthoughtupontheverynameofhomeinsuchaspot,Imusthaveburstoutweeping.

           Ihadgoodreasonsformychoice.Therewasinthispartoftheislealittlehutofahouselikeapig’shut,wherefishersusedtosleepwhentheycamethereupontheirbusiness;buttheturfroofofithadfallenentirelyin;sothatthehutwasofnousetome,andgavemelessshelterthanmyrocks.Whatwasmoreimportant,theshell-fishonwhichIlivedgrewthereingreatplenty;whenthetidewasoutIcouldgatherapeckatatime:andthiswasdoubtlessaconvenience.Buttheotherreasonwentdeeper.Ihadbecomeinnowayusedtothehorridsolitudeoftheisle,butstilllookedroundmeonallsides(likeamanthatwashunted),betweenfearandhopethatImightseesomehumancreaturecoming.Now,fromalittleupthehillsideoverthebay,Icouldcatchasightofthegreat,ancientchurchandtheroofsofthepeople’shousesinIona.Andontheotherhand,overthelowcountryoftheRoss,Isawsmokegoup,morningandevening,asiffromahomesteadinahollowoftheland.

           Iusedtowatchthissmoke,whenIwaswetandcold,andhadmyheadhalfturnedwithloneliness;andthinkofthefiresideandthecompany,tillmyheartburned.ItwasthesamewiththeroofsofIona.