his weird story, all combined to make my heart beat fast and loud
with a feeling for which I have no name. Indeed, there were many
times that night by the old Norseman's couch, and there have been
many times since, when a sensation rather than a conviction took
possession of my very soul, and I seemed not only to believe in,
but actually see, the strange lands, the strange people and the
strange world of which he told, and to hear the mighty orchestral
chorus of a thousand lusty voices.

For over two hours he seemed endowed with almost superhuman
strength, talking rapidly, and to all appearances, rationally.
Finally he gave into my hands certain data, drawings and crude
maps. "These," said he in conclusion, "I leave in your hands. If
I can have your promise to give them to the world, I shall die
happy, because I desire that people may know the truth, for then
all mystery concerning the frozen Northland will be explained.
There is no chance of your suffering the fate I suffered. They
will not put you in irons, nor confine you in a mad-house,
because you are not telling your own story, but mine, and I,
thanks to the gods, Odin and Thor, will be in my grave, and so
beyond the reach of disbelievers who would persecute."

Without a thought of the farreaching results the promise
entailed, or foreseeing the many sleepless nights which the
obligation has since brought me, I gave my hand and with
it a pledge to discharge faithfully his dying wish.

As the sun rose over the peaks of the San Jacinto, far to the
eastward, the spirit of Olaf Jansen, the navigator, the explorer
and worshiper of Odin and Thor, the man whose experiences and