of Dirk Peters, there was no longer an inhabitant on the island?"
"No one," repeated Hunt, "no one. The half-breed did not meet a single native."
"And what did Dirk Peters do?"
"Understand me. A forsaken boat lay there, at the back of the bay, containing some dried meat and several casks of water. The half-breed got into it, and a south wind—yes, south, very strong, the same that had driven the ice block, with the cross current, towards Tsalal Island—carried him on for weeks and weeks—to the iceberg barrier, through a passage in it—you may believe me, I am telling you only what Dirk Peters told me—and he cleared the polar circle."
"And beyond it?" I inquired.
"Beyond it. He was picked up by an American whaler, the Sandy Hook, and taken back to America."
Now, one thing at all events was clear. Edgar Poe had never known Arthur Pym. This was the reason why, wishing to leave his readers in exciting uncertainty, he had brought Pym to an end "as sudden as it was deplorable," but without indicating the manner or the cause of his death.
"And yet, although Arthur Pym did not return, could it be reasonably admitted that he had survived his companion for any length of time, that he was still living, eleven years having elapsed since his disappearance?"
"Yes, yes," replied Hunt.
And this he affirmed with the strong conviction that Dirk Peters had infused into his mind while the two were living together at Vandalia, in Illinois.
Now the question arose, was Hunt sane? Was it not
