salal Island, the population, seized by who can tell
what terror, had already taken refuge upon the south-western group,
and that William Guy and his companions were still hidden in gorges
of Klock-Klock. That would explain why half-breed had not come
across them, and also why survivors of the _Jane_ had had nothing to
fear during eleven years of their sojourn in the island. On the
other hand, since Patterson had left them there seven previously, if
we did not find them, that must have because they had been obliged
to leave Tsalal, the being rendered uninhabitable by the earthquake.

"So that," resumed Captain Len Guy, "on the return 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, to leave his readers in
exciting uncertainty, he had brought Pym to an end "as sudden as
it was deplorable," 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 togather in
Vandalia, in Illinois.

Now the question arose, was Hunt sane? Was it not he who had stolen
into my cabin in a fit of insanity--of this I had no doubt--and
murmured in my ear the words: "And Pym--poor Pym?"

Yes, and I had not been dreaming! In short, if all that Hunt had
just said was true, if he was but the faithful reporter of secrets
which had been entrusted to him by Dirk Pe