Selkirk puts his hand to his forehead.

These plaints, these sobs, he thinks he recognizes, and, suddenly raising himself with a convulsive effort, he exclaims: 'Marimonda!' And Marimonda runs at her master's voice, changes, on seeing him, her cries of distress for cries of joy, leaps and gambols on the edge of the cavity, and, quickly finding a way to join him, suspends herself by her tail to one of the branches on the verge, and springs to his side.
Then contortions, caresses, winks of the eyes, motions of the head, whining, whistling, succeed each other; she rolls before him, embraces him closely, seeking by every method to supply the place of that speech which alone is wanting, and which she almost seems to have.
Good Marimonda! her humid and shivering skin, her bruised and bleeding feet, her in-flamed eyes, plainly tell Selkirk how long she has been in search of him, how she has watched, run, to find him, and, not finding him, what she has suffered at his absence.
Her first transports over, by his pale complexion, by his dim eye, she quickly divines that it is want of food which has reduced him to this condition.

Swift as a bird she climbs the sides of the tunnel; she repeatedly goes and returns, bringing each time fruits and canes full of savory and refreshing liquid.

It is precisely the usual hour for their first repast, and once more they can partake of it together.
Revived by this repast, by the sight of his companion in exile, Selkirk recovers his ideas of life and liberty.

This abyss, from which she ascends with so much facility, who knows but with her aid he may be able in his turn to leave it?
He remembers his lasso; he puts one end of it into Marimonda's hand.