“Yes, yes,” replied Hunt.
And this he affirmed with the strong conviction that Dirk Peters had infused into his mind while the two were living together in Vandalia, in Illinois.
Now the question arose, was Hunt sane? Was it not he who had stolen into my cabin in a fit of insanity—of this I had no doubt—and murmured in my ear the words: “And Pym—poor Pym”?
Yes, and I had not been dreaming! In short, if all that Hunt had just said was true, if he was but the faithful reporter of secrets which had been entrusted to him by Dirk Peters, ought he to be believed when he repeated in a tone of mingled command and entreaty,—
“Pym is not dead. Pym is there. Poor Pym must not be forsaken!”
When I had made an end of questioning Hunt, Captain Len Guy came out of his meditative mood, profoundly troubled, and gave the word, “All hands forward!”
When the men were assembled around him, he said,—
“Listen to me, Hunt, and seriously consider the gravity of the questions I am about to put to you.”
Hunt held his head up, and ran his eyes over the crew of the Halbrane.
“You assert, Hunt, that all you have told us concerning Arthur Pym is true?”