Flor wrung her hands in dismay. She had not understood her situation
before. There was no escape now, it seemed,--not even to return. Nothing
was possible save starving to death on this ledge,--and after that, the
vultures. She sat there for a little while in a kind of stupor. She saw
the light falling slowly down, as it had fallen millions of mornings
before, and bringing out all blue and purple shadows on the wet old
rock; she saw the current ever hurrying by to join the tumult of the
cataract; she heard the deep, sweet music of the waters like a noisy
dream in her ears. With the shock of her wreck coming at the instant
when she fancied herself so swiftly and securely speeding on towards
safety and freedom, she felt indifferent to all succeeding fate. What if
she did die? who was she? what was she? nothing but an atom. What odds,
after all? The solution of her soliloquy was, that, before the first ray
of sunshine reached down and smote the dark torrent into glancing
emerald, she began to feel ravenously hungry, and found it a great deal
of odds, after all.
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