(Continuing from Part 30)
For many years, I had lived quietly on my island.
I had become accustomed to my daily work, my animals, and my two shelters.
My fields provided grain, and my goats supplied meat and milk. I had learned to make bread, pottery, clothing, and many other useful things.
Although I still wished to return to England, I had begun to feel safe.
I believed that I was the only person living on the island.
Then, one day, something happened that destroyed my peace of mind.
I was walking along the shore, going toward the place where I had once left my canoe.
The weather was pleasant, and the sea was calm.
I was not expecting anything unusual.
As I crossed a stretch of sand, I suddenly noticed a mark on the ground.
I stopped.
There, clearly pressed into the sand, was the footprint of a human being.
It was not the track of an animal.
I could see the heel, the toes, and the shape of a bare foot.
For several moments, I stood completely still.
I could hardly believe what I was seeing.
I looked around quickly.
There was nobody nearby.
The beach was empty.
I turned toward the trees and searched for movement.
Still, I saw nothing.
My heart began beating violently.
Who had made the footprint?
Was there another person on the island?
Had someone arrived by boat?
Were there several strangers hiding nearby?
I could not answer any of these questions.
I climbed a small rise and looked along the coast.
The sea stretched before me, but I saw no boat.
There were no people on the beach.
I listened carefully.
I heard only the wind and the waves.
I returned to the footprint and examined it again.
It was unmistakably human.
The sight filled me with terror.
For years, I had longed to meet another person.
I had often imagined how happy I would be if someone came to rescue me.
But now, when I found evidence that another human being had visited the island, I was frightened.
I did not know whether the stranger would be friendly or dangerous.
I remembered the stories I had heard about people living on the mainland.
Some travelers had described violent groups who attacked strangers and killed their enemies.
I had no way of knowing whether the person who made the footprint belonged to such a group.
My imagination began creating terrible possibilities.
Perhaps a boat had landed nearby.
Perhaps several armed men were searching the island.
Perhaps they had already discovered my home.
I suddenly felt that every tree might conceal an enemy.
I decided to return to my shelter immediately.
I walked quickly at first.
Then I began almost running.
Every few moments, I looked behind me.
I imagined that someone was following.
When a branch moved in the wind, I thought it might be a person.
When a bird flew suddenly from a tree, I nearly jumped with fear.
I had lived alone for so long that the possibility of meeting another human being had become more frightening than comforting.
At last, I reached my home.
I climbed over the fence using my ladder and pulled it inside after me.
Then I remained within the enclosure.
I felt as though I had escaped from a terrible danger, although I had not actually seen anyone.
For the rest of the day, I could think of nothing except the footprint.
I tried to understand how it had appeared.
Perhaps the stranger had come from the mainland in a canoe.
Perhaps a fishing boat had stopped briefly at the island.
Perhaps the person had landed only to gather food or water.
But another possibility frightened me even more.
What if people had been visiting the island for years without my knowledge?
They might have landed on the opposite coast while I was working near my home.
They might know the island better than I did.
I began to fear that my safety had depended entirely upon good fortune.
That night, I could hardly sleep.
Every sound seemed suspicious.
I listened for footsteps, voices, or the movement of people outside my fence.
But the night remained quiet.
The next morning, I tried to calm myself.
I reminded myself that I had seen only one footprint.
There had been no boat, no fire, and no other sign of human activity.
Perhaps I was allowing my imagination to frighten me unnecessarily.
Then another thought occurred to me.
Could the footprint have been my own?
I had walked along that shore before.
Perhaps I had left the mark during an earlier journey and simply forgotten it.
The idea gave me some comfort.
I wanted very much to believe it.
But I remembered that the footprint had seemed fresh and clear.
I also remembered the direction in which it pointed.
I could not decide what to think.
For several days, I remained close to my shelter.
I stopped making unnecessary journeys.
I did not go hunting as often as before.
Whenever I needed to leave my enclosure, I carried my gun and watched the surrounding country carefully.
My peaceful island had become a place of hidden dangers.
I began thinking about how I might strengthen my defenses.
My first fence was strong, but it might not be enough if several strangers attacked.
I considered building another wall outside it.
I also thought about planting more trees to hide my home.
If visitors came to the island, I did not want them to discover where I lived.
I was especially worried about my goats.
Their enclosures were outside my main shelter.
If strangers found them, they might realize that someone was living nearby.
They might follow the fences and paths until they reached my home.
I had worked for years to build my little farm.
Now I feared that it might reveal my presence.
The footprint had changed everything.
Before seeing it, I had believed that my greatest problem was loneliness.
Now I understood that being alone had also protected me from possible enemies.
I had wished for human company, but I had never considered that the first people I met might threaten my life.
As evening approached, I sat inside my shelter and thought about the strange discovery.
I had seen no person.
I had heard no voice.
Yet a single mark in the sand had filled me with more fear than many of the dangers I had already survived.
I realized that I could no longer live as carelessly as before.
I would have to watch the coast, hide my possessions, and prepare for the possibility that strangers might return.
For the first time in many years, I felt that my island home was no longer entirely my own.