"Had I not been the guilty wretch I am," he cried, bursting into an agony of tears, "she would never have died thus. With what airs we human atoms invest ourselves! What ridiculous fancies of our importance! We believe we have destinies, when we have only destinations: that we are something immortal, when each of us is in truth only the repository of a dream. Some of these persons were examining the spot where the spike had been cut off; others the spike itself, now considered a remarkable object; and all were marvelling how Jack could have possibly squeezed himself through such a narrow aperture, until it was explained to them by Mr. "Then it is not too late to save him. In concealing himself behind the timber, Mr. Please to release me.
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