told the truth about the marvelous discoveries made by my father
and myself. But this was far from being the end of my tortures.

After four years and eight months' absence I reached Stockholm,
only to find my mother had died the previous year, and the
property left by my parents in the possession of my mother's
people, but it was at once made over to me.

All might have been well, had I erased from my memory the story
of our adventure and of my father's terrible death.

Finally, one day I told the story in detail to my uncle, Gustaf
Osterlind, a man of considerable property, and urged him to fit
out an expedition for me to make another voyage to the strange
land.

At first I thought he favored my project. He seemed interested,
and invited me to go before certain officials and explain to
them, as I had to him, the story of our travels and discoveries.
Imagine my disappointment and horror when, upon the conclusion of
my narrative, certain papers were signed by my uncle, and,
without warning, I found myself arrested and hurried away to
dismal and fearful confinement in a madhouse, where I remained
for twenty-eight years -- long, tedious, frightful years of
suffering!

I never ceased to assert my sanity, and to protest against the
injustice of my confinement. Finally, on the seventeenth of
October, 1862, I was released. My uncle was dead, and the friends
of my youth were now strangers. Indeed, a man over fifty years