A dead and disquieting silence reigns on board. I begin to wonder
whether I am not the only living being in the ship.

Now I feel an irresistible torpor coming over me. The air is vitiated.
I cannot breathe. My chest is bursting. I try to resist, but it is
impossible to do so. The temperature rises to such a degree that I am
compelled to divest myself of part of my clothing. Then I lie me down
in a corner. My heavy eyelids close, and I sink into a prostration
that eventually forces me into heavy slumber.

How long have I been asleep? I cannot say. Is it night? Is it day? I
know not. I remark, however, that I breathe more easily, and that the
air is no longer poisoned carbonic acid.

Was the air renewed while I slept? Has the door been opened? Has
anybody been in here?

Yes, here is the proof of it!

In feeling about, my hand has come in contact with a mug filled with
a liquid that exhales an inviting odor. I raise it to my lips, which,
are burning, for I am suffering such an agony of thirst that I would
even drink brackish water.

It is ale--an ale of excellent quality--which refreshes and comforts
me, and I drain the pint to the last drop.

But if they have not condemned me to die of thirst, neither have they
condemned me to die of hunger, I suppose?