“When my Em’ly took flight,” he said, in stern wrath for the moment, “from the house wheer she was made a prisoner by that theer spotted snake as Mas’r Davy see⁠—and his story’s trew, and may God confound him!⁠—she took flight in the night. It was a dark night, with a many stars a-shining. She was wild. She ran along the sea beach, believing the old boat was theer; and calling out to us to turn away our faces, for she was a-coming by. She heerd herself a-crying out, like as if it was another person; and cut herself on them sharp-pinted stones and rocks, and felt it no more than if she had been rock herself. Ever so fur she run, and there was fire afore her eyes, and roarings in her ears. Of a sudden⁠—or so she thowt, you unnerstand⁠—the day broke, wet and windy, and she was lying b’low a heap of stone upon the shore, and a woman was a-speaking to her, saying, in the language of that country, what was it as had gone so much amiss?”