an historian, not a writer of romance? Arthur Gordon Pym's journal had actually been confided to him! Direct relations had been established between them! Arthur Pym existed, or rather he had existed, he was a real being! And he had died, by a sudden and deplorable death under circumstances not revealed before he had completed the narrative of his extraordinary voyage! And what parallel had he reached on leaving Tsalal Island with his companion, Dirk Peters, and how had both of them been restored to their native land, America?
I thought my head was turning, that I was going mad—I who accused Captain Guy of being insane! No! I had not heard aright! I had misunderstood! This was a mere phantom of my fancy!
And yet, how was I to reject the evidence found on the body of the mate of the Jane, that Patterson whose words were supported by ascertained dates? And above all, how could I retain a doubt, after James West, who was the most self-possessed among us, had succeeded in deciphering the following fragments of sentences:—
"Drifting since the 3rd of June north of Tsalal Island. . . . Still there . . . Captain William Guy and five of the men of the Jane—the piece of ice I am on is drifting across the iceberg . . . food will soon fail me. . . . Since the 13th of June . . . my last resources exhausted . . . to-day . . . 16th of June . . . I am going to die."
So then for nearly three months Patterson's body had lain on the surface of this ice-waif which we had met on our way from the Kerguelens to Tristan d'Acunha! Ah! why had we not saved the mate of the Jane!
I had to yield to evidence. Captain Len Guy, who knew Patterson, had recognized him in this frozen corpse!
