“No, not mad. And madmen are respected on the prairies, even if they are not believed. And I—I must be believed. No, no, no! Pym is not dead!”
“Edgar Poe asserts that he is,” I replied.
“Yes, I know, Edgar Poe of Baltimore. But—he never saw poor Pym, never, never.”
“What!” exclaimed Captain Len Guy; “the two men were not acquainted?”
“No!”
“And it was not Arthur Pym himself who related his adventures to Edgar Poe?”
“No, captain, no! He, below there, at Baltimore, had only the notes written by Pym from the day when he hid himself on board the Grampus to the very last hour—the last—understand me the last.”
“Who, then, brought back that journal?” asked Captain Len Guy, as he seized Hunt’s hand.
“It was Pym’s companion, he who loved him, his poor Pym, like a son. It was Dirk Peters, the half-breed, who came back alone from there—beyond.”
“The half-breed, Dirk Peters!” I exclaimed.