His seals, he now regrets.

When they were encamped on the shore, they at least gave him something to look at, an amusement; something lived, moved, near him.
When he finds himself a prey to these fits, which, in his pride, he persists in attributing to transient indisposition, he goes to walk in the mountains, taking with him only his pipe, his Bible, and his spy-glass.
He often pursues his journey as far as the oasis; there, he seats himself at the extremity of the little valley, opposite the sea, from which his eye can traverse its immense extent.

He opens the holy book, and closes it immediately; then, his brow reddening, he seizes his spy-glass, levels it, and remains entire hours measuring the ocean, wave by wave.
What is he looking for there?
He seeks a sail, a sail which shall come to his island and bear him from his desert, from his _ennui_.

His _ennui_ he can no longer dissimulate; this is the evil of his solitude.
One day, while he was at this spot, the setting sun suddenly illuminated a black point, against which the waves seemed to break in foam, as against the prow of a ship; his eyes become dim, a tremor seizes him.

He looks again--keeps his glass for a long time fixed on the same object, but the black point does not stir.
'Another illusion!' said he to himself; 'it is a reef, a rock which the tide has left bare.' He wipes the glasses of his spy-glass, he examines again; he seems to see the waves whiten and whirl for a large space around this rock.
'Can it be an island?
If an island, is it inhabited?
I will construct a barque, and if God has pity on me I will reach it.' At this moment he hears footsteps resound on the dry leaves which the wind has swept into the little valley.