of a negro.

Erik asked himself whether he was the sport of some illusion.

He opened the man's waistcoat, and bared his chest. It was perhaps as
much to ascertain whether his heart still beat as to seek for his name.

He found his name tattooed in blue, on a rudely designed escutcheon.
"Patrick O'Donoghan, 'Cynthia,'" and his heart still beat. The man was
not dead. He had a large wound in his head, another in his shoulder, and
on his chest a contusion, which greatly interfered with his respiration.

"He must be carried to our place of shelter, and restored to life," said
Erik, to Mr. Hersebom.

And then he added in a low tone as if he was afraid of being overheard.

"It is he, father, whom we have been seeking for such a long time
without being able to find him--Patrick O'Donoghan--and see he is almost
unable to breathe."

The thought that the secret of his life was known to this bloody object
upon which death already appeared to have set his seal, kindled a gloomy
flame in Erik's eyes. His adopted father divined his thoughts, and could
not help shrugging his shoulders--he seemed to say:

"Of what use would it be to discover it now. The knowledge of all the
secrets in the world would be useless to us."

He, however, took the body by the limbs, while Erik lifted him under the
arms, and loaded with this burden they resumed their walk.

The motion made the wounded man open his eyes. Soon the pain caused by
his wounds was so great that he began to moan and utter confused cries,
among which they distinguished the English word "drink!"

They were still some distance from their depot of provisions. Erik,
however, stopped and propped the unfortunate man against a hummock, and
then put his leathern bottle to his lips.

It was nearly empty, but the mouthful of strong liquor that Patrick
O'Donoghan swallowed seemed to restore him to life. He looked around
him, heaved a deep sigh and then said:

"Where is Mr. Jones?"

"We found you alone on the ice," answered Erik. "Had you been there
long?"

"I do not know!" answered the wounded man, with difficulty. "Give me
something more to drink." He swallowed a second mouthful and then he
recovered sufficiently to be able to speak.

"When the tempest overtook us the yacht sunk," he explained. "Some of
the crew had time to throw themselves into the boats, the rest perished.
At the first moment of peril Mr. Jones made a sign for me to go with him
into a life-boat, which was