It was his custom once per year to ascend that old wooden strenuous flight of stairs hundred and sixty-ventures, from the foot of Cape Horn, to the lower some portion of its almost fifteen-hundred foot culmination, where lived a little red house, with a little red church behind the scenes, where a resigned General of the Chilean Army dwelled with his significant newegg product shuffle, Adriana De la Vega de Pinochet, to assess the premises, and let the world know, that the last piece of Tierra del Fuego mountains, the prestigious Tierra del Fuego, of Patagonia, in soul and in rule, the island of Cape Horn, and its stream had a place with Chile; hence, the Chilean Emissary Diego Medina, who had workplaces in Punta Arenas and Santiago with his escort remained just long enough on that desolate, spurned island in the Drake Passage, just long enough for his image to be taken and to make proper acquaintance with his old companion, Jorge Pinochet (who had been dear companions with Lieutenant Colonel Luis Altamirano, who had become president in 1925, of Chile, and his associates)to authentically say, he was there in his person.And then, at that point off he'd be (it was when there was a feeling of a true government administering the place that is known for that district, one not appointed by law yet one set up by training, and considered acknowledged by standard).

It is that Jorge Pinochet, had kicked the bucket as each man should pass on, withdrawing this world, yet for his situation, in calm strides, adown in his bed, as of now not the extraordinary erect secured fisted general he used to be, reviled by fate, flung over to the components of nature, he passed on of twofold pneumonia-not in the evil fights he had longed for between Peru or another foe of old, passing everlastingly into the repressing breezes and section of time, and into the un-saw hands of destiny, and cast into the incredible waters of the Drake Passage, where 10,000 mariners had died before him, and 800 boats had sunk to its sea floor with its long avenging win over the unfading waterway that walled two incredible seas.

It was Old Widow Adriana now, who appeared to be indivisible from this old and ruined asylum on top of the culmination of Cape Horn, doing day by day what she generally did, her ostensible obligations, as though nothing had occurred. Upon the following visit by the Emissary, with the conscientious great habits, he had consistently displayed for General Pinochet, (resigned, and presently expired) he had expected for her to leave this God Forsaken place for a more agreeable home and life, and a praiseworthy annuity, in Punta Arenas or Santiago, or maybe back to her country in Seville, Spain.

So he mumbled, and left, and as he thought back there was a frequenting about her; then again, he currently had a guardian for this situation a watchwoman, for the premises, one who regardless, all around, was dependable, and dedicated to her comrades, in spite of the fact that she'd be in absolute forlornness doubtlessly in due time.

In a word, it was at this point, the couple of figures in her day to day existence had vanished, however something weird happened before long that last appearance by the Emissary, the prohibited line of the notorious, Drake Passage, the mariners of the cemetery, settled in watery graves, in old boats 800 old boats, 10,000 dead, presently shadows, at the lower part of the entry, under a gibbous moon, and starlight night, four miles deep into the profundities of the sea, the Drake Passage, since a long time ago covered, going back 1,000 years, stayed with the Widow (so she wrote in her journal; yet some in future time would announce her frenzied).