Sanderson's house, when I stopped to watch the
sun setting in this glorious Bay of Bengal. I was leaning over a low
wall, looking out on the open sea with its palm-fringed shores, when
suddenly the sun shot out a jagged flame; the sky heaved and turned
to blood--and I knew no more. I had been murderously struck from
behind. That I was found, lying to all appearance dead, with a
hideous zig-zag wound upon the scalp; that my pockets had been to all
appearance rifled (whether by the assassin or the natives that found
me is uncertain); that I was finally claimed and carried home by Mr.
Sanderson, who, growing uneasy at my absence, had set out to look for
me; that for more than a month, and then again for almost two months,
my life hung in the balance; and that I owe my recovery to Mr.
Sanderson's unceasing kindness--all this I have learnt but lately.
I can write no more at present.
"Oct. 3rd.--I am slightly better. My mental powers are slowly coming
back after the fever that followed the wound. I pass my days mostly
in speculating on the reason of this murderous attack, but am still
unable to account for it.
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