It was Marimonda.
At sight of her enemy, she darted lightly and rapidly behind a woody
hillock. An instant afterwards, he saw her tranquilly seated on the
topmost branch of a tree, holding in each of her hands fruits which
she was alternately striking against the branch, and against each
other, to break their tough envelope.
The sight of Marimonda has always awakened in Selkirk a sentiment of
repulsion; she not only reminds him of Stradling, but with her
withered cheeks, projecting jaw, and especially her dancing motion, he
now imagines that she resembles him; and yet, pausing before her, he
contemplates her not without a lively emotion of surprise and
interest.
He had already encountered her within gun-shot, when engaged in the
destruction of the wild cats, and had asked himself whether he should
not reckon her among noxious animals. But then Marimonda, with her
hand constantly pressed against her side, was with the other seizing
various herbs, which she tasted, bruised between her teeth, and
applied to her wound; useless remedies, doubtless, for, grown meagre,
her hair dull and bristling, she seemed to have but a few days to
live, and Selkirk thought her not worth a charge of powder and shot.
And here he finds her alert and healthy, holding in the same hand
which had served as a compress, no longer the plant necessary for her
cure, but the fruit desirable for her sustenance.
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