ieved
itself to be chasing some powerful sea-monster, of which it was
necessary to rid the ocean at any price."

A half-smile curled the lips of the commander: then, in a calmer tone:

"M. Aronnax," he replied, "dare you affirm that your frigate would not
as soon have pursued and cannonaded a submarine boat as a monster?"

This question embarrassed me, for certainly Captain Farragut might not
have hesitated. He might have thought it his duty to destroy a
contrivance of this kind, as he would a gigantic narwhal.

"You understand then, sir," continued the stranger, "that I have the
right to treat you as enemies?"

I answered nothing, purposely. For what good would it be to discuss
such a proposition, when force could destroy the best arguments?

"I have hesitated some time," continued the commander; "nothing obliged
me to show you hospitality. If I chose to separate myself from you, I
should have no interest in seeing you again; I could place you upon the
deck of this vessel which has served you as a refuge, I could sink
beneath the waters, and forget that you had ever existed. Would not
that be my right?"

"It might be the right of a savage," I answered, "but not that of a
civilised man."

"Professor," replied the commander, quickly, "I am not what you call a
civilised man! I have done with society entirely, for reasons which I
alone have the right of appreciating. I do not, therefore, obey its
laws, and I desire you never to allude to them before me again!"

This was said plainly. A flash of anger and disdain kindled in the
eyes of the Unknown, and I had a glimpse of a terrible past in the life
of this man. Not only had he put himself beyond the pale of human
laws, but he had made himself independent of them, free in the
strictest acceptation of the word, quite beyond their reach! Who then
would dare to pursue him at the bottom of the sea, when, on its
surface, he defied all attempts made against him?

What vessel could resist the shock of his submarine monitor? What
cuirass, however thick, could withstand the blows of his spur? No man
could demand from him an account of his actions; God, if he believed in
one--his conscience, if he had one--were the sole judges to whom he was
answerable.

These reflections crossed my mind rapidly, whilst the stranger
personage was silent, absorbed, and as if wrapped up in himself. I
regarded him with fear mingled with interest, as, doubtless, OEdiphus
regarde