At once we moved aboard the _Ghost_, occupying our old state-rooms andcooking in the galley. The imprisonment of Wolf Larsen had happened mostopportunely, for what must have been the Indian summer of this highlatitude was gone and drizzling stormy weather had set in. We were verycomfortable, and the inadequate shears, with the foremast suspended fromthem, gave a business-like air to the schooner and a promise ofdeparture.

And now that we had Wolf Larsen in irons, how little did we need it!Like his first attack, his second had been accompanied by seriousdisablement. Maud made the discovery in the afternoon while trying togive him nourishment. He had shown signs of consciousness, and she hadspoken to him, eliciting no response. He was lying on his left side atthe time, and in evident pain. With a restless movement he rolled hishead around, clearing his left ear from the pillow against which it hadbeen pressed. At once he heard and answered her, and at once she came tome.

Pressing the pillow against his left ear, I asked him if he heard me, buthe gave no sign. Removing the pillow and, repeating the question heanswered promptly that he did.

“Do you know you are deaf in the right ear?” I asked.

“Yes,” he answered in a low, strong voice, “and worse than that. Mywhole right side is affected. It seems asleep. I cannot move arm orleg.”

“Feigning again?” I demanded angrily.

He shook his head, his stern mouth shaping the strangest, twisted smile.It was indeed a twisted smile, for it was on the left side only, thefacial muscles of the right side moving not at all.

“That was the last play of the Wolf,” he said. “I am paralysed. I shallnever walk again. Oh, only on the other side,” he added, as thoughdivining the suspicious glance I flung at his left leg, the knee of whichhad just then drawn up, and elevated the blankets.

“It’s unfortunate,” he continued. “I’d liked to have done for you first,Hump. And I thought I had that much left in me.”

“But why?” I asked; partly in horror, partly out of curiosity.

Again his stern mouth framed the twisted smile, as he said:

“Oh, just to be alive, to be living and doing, to be the biggest bit ofthe ferment to the end, to eat you. But to die this way.”

He shrugged his shoulders, or attempted to shrug them, rather, for theleft shoulder alone moved. Like the smile, the shrug was twisted.

“But how can you account for it?” I asked. “Where is the seat of yourtrouble?”

“The brain,” he said at once. “It was those cursed headaches brought iton.”

“Symptoms,” I said.

He nodded his head. “There is no accounting for it. I was never sick inmy life. Something’s gone wrong with my brain. A cancer, a tumour, orsomething of that nature,—a thing that devours and destroys. It’sattacking my nerve-centres, eating them up, bit by bit, cell by cell—fromthe pain.”

“The motor-centres, too,” I suggested.

“So it would seem; and the curse of it is that I must lie here,conscious, mentally unimpaired, knowing that the lines are going down,breaking bit by bit communication with the world. I cannot see, hearingand feeling are leaving me, at this rate I shall soon cease to speak; yetall the time I shall be here, alive, active, and powerless.”

“When you say _you_ are here, I’d suggest the likelihood of the soul,” Isaid.

“Bosh!” was his retort. “It simply means that in the attack on my brainthe higher psychical centres are untouched. I can remember, I can thinkand reason. When that goes, I go. I am not. The soul?”

He broke out in mocking laughter, then turned his left ear to the pillowas a sign that he wished no further conversation.

Maud and I went about our work oppressed by the fearful fate which hadovertaken him,—how fearful we were yet fully to realize. There was theawfulness of retribution about it. Our thoughts were deep and solemn,and we spoke to each other scarcely above whispers.

“You might remove the handcuffs,” he said that night, as we stood inconsultation over him. “It’s dead safe. I’m a paralytic now. The nextthing to watch out for is bed sores.”

He smiled his twisted smile, and Maud, her eyes wide with horror, wascompelled to turn away her head.

“Do you know that your smile is crooked?” I asked him; for I knew thatshe must attend him, and I wished to save her as much as possible.

“Then I shall smile no more,” he said calmly. “I thought something waswrong. My right cheek has been numb all day. Yes, and I’ve had warningsof this for the last three days; by spells, my right side seemed going tosleep, sometimes arm or hand, sometimes leg or foot.”

“So my smile is crooked?” he queried a short while after. “Well,consider henceforth that I smile internally, with my soul, if you please,my soul. Consider that I am smiling now.”

And for the space of several minutes he lay there, quiet, indulging hisgrotesque fancy.

The man of him was not changed. It was the old, indomitable, terribleWolf Larsen, imprisoned somewhere within that flesh which had once beenso invincible and splendid. Now it bound him with insentient fetters,walling his soul in darkness and silence, blocking it from the worldwhich to him had been a riot of action. No more would he conjugate theverb “to do in every mood and tense.” “To be” was all that remained tohim—to be, as he had defined death, without movement; to will, but not toexecute; to think and reason and in the spirit of him to be as alive asever, but in the flesh to be dead, quite dead.

And yet, though I even removed the handcuffs, we could not adjustourselves to his condition. Our minds revolted. To us he was full ofpotentiality. We knew not what to expect of him next, what fearfulthing, rising above the flesh, he might break out and do. Our experiencewarranted this state of mind, and we went about our work with anxietyalways upon us.

I had solved the problem which had arisen through the shortness of theshears. By means of the watch-tackle (I had made a new one), I heavedthe butt of the foremast across the rail and then lowered it to the deck.Next, by means of the shears, I hoisted the main boom on board. Itsforty feet of length would supply the height necessary properly to swingthe mast. By means of a secondary tackle I had attached to the shears, Iswung the boom to a nearly perpendicular position, then lowered the buttto the deck, where, to prevent slipping, I spiked great cleats around it.The single block of my original shears-tackle I had attached to the endof the boom. Thus, by carrying this tackle to the windlass, I couldraise and lower the end of the boom at will, the butt always remainingstationary, and, by means of guys, I could swing the boom from side toside. To the end of the boom I had likewise rigged a hoisting tackle;and when the whole arrangement was completed I could not but be startledby the power and latitude it gave me.

Of course, two days’ work was required for the accomplishment of thispart of my task, and it was not till the morning of the third day that Iswung the foremast from the deck and proceeded to square its butt to fitthe step. Here I was especially awkward. I sawed and chopped andchiselled the weathered wood till it had the appearance of having beengnawed by some gigantic mouse. But it fitted.

“It will work, I know it will work,” I cried.

“Do you know Dr. Jordan’s final test of truth?” Maud asked.

I shook my head and paused in the act of dislodging the shavings whichhad drifted down my neck.

“Can we make it work? Can we trust our lives to it? is the test.”

“He is a favourite of yours,” I said.

“When I dismantled my old Pantheon and cast out Napoleon and Cæsar andtheir fellows, I straightway erected a new Pantheon,” she answeredgravely, “and the first I installed as Dr. Jordan.”

“A modern hero.”

“And a greater because modern,” she added. “How can the Old World heroescompare with ours?”

I shook my head. We were too much alike in many things for argument.Our points of view and outlook on life at least were very alike.

“For a pair of critics we agree famously,” I laughed.

“And as shipwright and able assistant,” she laughed back.

But there was little time for laughter in those days, what of our heavywork and of the awfulness of Wolf Larsen’s living death.

He had received another stroke. He had lost his voice, or he was losingit. He had only intermittent use of it. As he phrased it, the wireswere like the stock market, now up, now down. Occasionally the wireswere up and he spoke as well as ever, though slowly and heavily. Thenspeech would suddenly desert him, in the middle of a sentence perhaps,and for hours, sometimes, we would wait for the connection to bere-established. He complained of great pain in his head, and it wasduring this period that he arranged a system of communication against thetime when speech should leave him altogether—one pressure of the hand for“yes,” two for “no.” It was well that it was arranged, for by eveninghis voice had gone from him. By hand pressures, after that, he answeredour questions, and when he wished to speak he scrawled his thoughts withhis left hand, quite legibly, on a sheet of paper.

The fierce winter had now descended upon us. Gale followed gale, withsnow and sleet and rain. The seals had started on their great southernmigration, and the rookery was practically deserted. I workedfeverishly. In spite of the bad weather, and of the wind whichespecially hindered me, I was on deck from daylight till dark and makingsubstantial progress.

I profited by my lesson learned through raising the shears and thenclimbing them to attach the guys. To the top of the foremast, which wasjust lifted conveniently from the deck, I attached the rigging, stays andthroat and peak halyards. As usual, I had underrated the amount of workinvolved in this portion of the task, and two long days were necessary tocomplete it. And there was so much yet to be done—the sails, forinstance, which practically had to be made over.

While I toiled at rigging the foremast, Maud sewed on canvas, readyalways to drop everything and come to my assistance when more hands thantwo were required. The canvas was heavy and hard, and she sewed with theregular sailor’s palm and three-cornered sail-needle. Her hands weresoon sadly blistered, but she struggled bravely on, and in addition doingthe cooking and taking care of the sick man.

“A fig for superstition,” I said on Friday morning. “That mast goes into-day.”

Everything was ready for the attempt. Carrying the boom-tackle to thewindlass, I hoisted the mast nearly clear of the deck. Making thistackle fast, I took to the windlass the shears-tackle (which wasconnected with the end of the boom), and with a few turns had the mastperpendicular and clear.

Maud clapped her hands the instant she was relieved from holding theturn, crying:

“It works! It works! We’ll trust our lives to it!”

Then she assumed a rueful expression.

“It’s not over the hole,” she add. “Will you have to begin all over?”

I smiled in superior fashion, and, slacking off on one of the boom-guysand taking in on the other, swung the mast perfectly in the centre of thedeck. Still it was not over the hole. Again the rueful expression cameon her face, and again I smiled in a superior way. Slacking away on theboom-tackle and hoisting an equivalent amount on the shears-tackle, Ibrought the butt of the mast into position directly over the hole in thedeck. Then I gave Maud careful instructions for lowering away and wentinto the hold to the step on the schooner’s bottom.

I called to her, and the mast moved easily and accurately. Straighttoward the square hole of the step the square butt descended; but as itdescended it slowly twisted so that square would not fit into square.But I had not even a moment’s indecision. Calling to Maud to ceaselowering, I went on deck and made the watch-tackle fast to the mast witha rolling hitch. I left Maud to pull on it while I went below. By thelight of the lantern I saw the butt twist slowly around till its sidescoincided with the sides of the step. Maud made fast and returned to thewindlass. Slowly the butt descended the several intervening inches, atthe same time slightly twisting again. Again Maud rectified the twistwith the watch-tackle, and again she lowered away from the windlass.Square fitted into square. The mast was stepped.

I raised a shout, and she ran down to see. In the yellow lantern lightwe peered at what we had accomplished. We looked at each other, and ourhands felt their way and clasped. The eyes of both of us, I think, weremoist with the joy of success.

“It was done so easily after all,” I remarked. “All the work was in thepreparation.”

“And all the wonder in the completion,” Maud added. “I can scarcelybring myself to realize that that great mast is really up and in; thatyou have lifted it from the water, swung it through the air, anddeposited it here where it belongs. It is a Titan’s task.”

“And they made themselves many inventions,” I began merrily, then pausedto sniff the air.

I looked hastily at the lantern. It was not smoking. Again I sniffed.

“Something is burning,” Maud said, with sudden conviction.

We sprang together for the ladder, but I raced past her to the deck. Adense volume of smoke was pouring out of the steerage companion-way.

“The Wolf is not yet dead,” I muttered to myself as I sprang down throughthe smoke.

It was so thick in the confined space that I was compelled to feel myway; and so potent was the spell of Wolf Larsen on my imagination, I wasquite prepared for the helpless giant to grip my neck in a strangle hold.I hesitated, the desire to race back and up the steps to the deck almostoverpowering me. Then I recollected Maud. The vision of her, as I hadlast seen her, in the lantern light of the schooner’s hold, her browneyes warm and moist with joy, flashed before me, and I knew that I couldnot go back.

I was choking and suffocating by the time I reached Wolf Larsen’s bunk.I reached my hand and felt for his. He was lying motionless, but movedslightly at the touch of my hand. I felt over and under his blankets.There was no warmth, no sign of fire. Yet that smoke which blinded meand made me cough and gasp must have a source. I lost my headtemporarily and dashed frantically about the steerage. A collision withthe table partially knocked the wind from my body and brought me tomyself. I reasoned that a helpless man could start a fire only near towhere he lay.

I returned to Wolf Larsen’s bunk. There I encountered Maud. How longshe had been there in that suffocating atmosphere I could not guess.

“Go up on deck!” I commanded peremptorily.

“But, Humphrey—” she began to protest in a queer, husky voice.

“Please! please!” I shouted at her harshly.

She drew away obediently, and then I thought, What if she cannot find thesteps? I started after her, to stop at the foot of the companion-way.Perhaps she had gone up. As I stood there, hesitant, I heard her crysoftly:

“Oh, Humphrey, I am lost.”

I found her fumbling at the wall of the after bulkhead, and, half leadingher, half carrying her, I took her up the companion-way. The pure airwas like nectar. Maud was only faint and dizzy, and I left her lying onthe deck when I took my second plunge below.

The source of the smoke must be very close to Wolf Larsen—my mind wasmade up to this, and I went straight to his bunk. As I felt about amonghis blankets, something hot fell on the back of my hand. It burned me,and I jerked my hand away. Then I understood. Through the cracks in thebottom of the upper bunk he had set fire to the mattress. He stillretained sufficient use of his left arm to do this. The damp straw ofthe mattress, fired from beneath and denied air, had been smouldering allthe while.

As I dragged the mattress out of the bunk it seemed to disintegrate inmid-air, at the same time bursting into flames. I beat out the burningremnants of straw in the bunk, then made a dash for the deck for freshair.

Several buckets of water sufficed to put out the burning mattress in themiddle of the steerage floor; and ten minutes later, when the smoke hadfairly cleared, I allowed Maud to come below. Wolf Larsen wasunconscious, but it was a matter of minutes for the fresh air to restorehim. We were working over him, however, when he signed for paper andpencil.

“Pray do not interrupt me,” he wrote. “I am smiling.”

“I am still a bit of the ferment, you see,” he wrote a little later.

“I am glad you are as small a bit as you are,” I said.

“Thank you,” he wrote. “But just think of how much smaller I shall bebefore I die.”

“And yet I am all here, Hump,” he wrote with a final flourish. “I canthink more clearly than ever in my life before. Nothing to disturb me.Concentration is perfect. I am all here and more than here.”

It was like a message from the night of the grave; for this man’s bodyhad become his mausoleum. And there, in so strange sepulchre, his spiritfluttered and lived. It would flutter and live till the last line ofcommunication was broken, and after that who was to say how much longerit might continue to flutter and live?