Yes! I knew that hideous story, not a fable, as I had long believed. This was what had happened on board the Grampus, on the 16th of July, 1827, and vainly did I try to understand Dirk Peters' reason for recalling it to my recollection.
"Well, Dirk Peters," I said, "I will ask you, since you were anxious to hide your name, what it was that induced you to reveal it, when the Halbrane was moored off Tsalal Island; why you did not keep to the name of Hunt?"
"Sir—understand me—there was hesitation about going farther—they wanted to turn back. This was decided, and then I thought that by telling who I was—Dirk Peters—of the Grampus—poor Pym's companion—I should be heard; they would believe with me that he was still living, they would go in search of him! And yet, it was a serious thing to do—to acknowledge that I was Dirk Peters, he who had killed Parker! But hunger, devouring hunger!"
"Come, come, Dirk Peters," said I, "you exaggerate! If the lot had fallen to you, you would have incurred the fate of Parker. You cannot be charged with a crime."
"Sir, would Parker's family speak of it as you do?"
"His family! Had he then relations?"
"Yes—and that is why Pym changed his name in the narrative. Parker's name was not Parker—it was—"
"Arthur Pym was right," I said, interrupting him quickly, "and as for me, I do not wish to know Parker's real name. Keep this secret."
"No, I will tell it to you. It weighs too heavily on me, and I shall be relieved, perhaps, when I have told you, Mr. Jeorling."
"No, Dirk Peters, no!"
