"It is he, father, whom we have been seeking for such a long time without being able to find him—Patrick O'Donoghan—and see he is almost unable to breathe."
The thought that the secret of his life was known to this bloody object upon which death already appeared to have set his seal, kindled a gloomy flame in Erik's eyes. His adopted father divined his thoughts, and could not help shrugging his shoulders—he seemed to say:
"Of what use would it be to discover it now. The knowledge of all the secrets in the world would be useless to us."
He, however, took the body by the limbs, while Erik lifted him under the arms, and loaded with this burden they resumed their walk.
The motion made the wounded man open his eyes. Soon the pain caused by his wounds was so great that he began to moan and utter confused cries, among which they distinguished the English word "drink!"
They were still some distance from their depot of provisions. Erik, however, stopped and propped the unfortunate man against a hummock, and then put his leathern bottle to his lips.
It was nearly empty, but the mouthful of strong liquor that Patrick O'Donoghan swallowed seemed to restore him to life. He looked around him, heaved a deep sigh and then said:
"Where is Mr. Jones?"
"We found you alone on the ice," answered Erik. "Had you been there long?"
"I do not know!" answered the wounded man, with difficulty. "Give me something more to drink." He swallowed a second mouthful and then he recovered sufficiently to be able to speak.