his words well before uttering them.

. . . . . .


The long-impending catastrophe has come at last. I hardly know
what to write about it. The Captain is gone. He may come back to
us again alive, but I fear me--I fear me. It is now seven o'clock
of the morning of the 19th of September. I have spent the
whole night traversing the great ice-floe in front of us with
a party of seamen in the hope of coming upon some trace of him, but
in vain. I shall try to give some account of the circumstances
which attended upon his disappearance. Should any one ever chance
to read the words which I put down, I trust they will remember that
I do not write from conjecture or from hearsay, but that I, a sane
and educated man, am describing accurately what actually occurred
before my very eyes. My inferences are my own, but I shall be
answerable for the facts.

The Captain remained in excellent spirits after the conversation
which I have recorded. He appeared to be nervous and impatient,
however, frequently changing his position, and moving his limbs in
an aimless choreic way which is characteristic of him at times. In
a quarter of an hour he went upon deck seven times, only to descend
after a few hurried paces. I followed him each time, for there was
something about his face which confirmed my resolution of not
letting him out of my sight. He seemed to observe the effect which
his movements had produced, for he endeavoured by an over-done
hilarity, laughing boisterously at the very smallest of jokes, to
quiet my apprehensions.