Oh, that lot-drawing! The "short straws" were little splinters of wood of uneven length which Arthur held in his hand. The shortest was to designate him who should be immolated. And he speaks of the sort of involuntary fierce desire to deceive his corn that he felt-"to cheat" is the word he uses-but he did not "cheat," and he asks pardon for having had the idea! Let us try to put ourselves in his place!
He made up his mind, and held out his hand, closed on the four slips. Dirk Peters drew the first. Fate favoured him. He had nothing more to fear. Arthur Pym calculated that one more chance was against him. Augustus Barnard drew in his turn. Saved, too, he! And now Arthur Pym reckoned up the exact chances Parker and himself. At that moment all the ferocity the tiger entered into his soul. He conceived an intense and devilish hatred of his poor comrade, his fellow-man.
Five minutes elapsed before Parker dared to draw. At length Arthur Pym, standing with closed eyes, not knowing whether the lot was for or against him, felt a hand seize his own. It was the hand of Dirk Peters. Arthur Pym had escaped death. And then the half-breed upon Parker and stabbed him in the back. The frightful repast followed-immediately-and words are not sufficient to convey to the mind the horror of the reality.
Yes! I knew that hideous story, not a fable, as I had long believed. This was what had happened on board the Grampus, on the I6th of July, 1827, and vainly did I try to understand Dirk Peters' reason for recalling it to my recollection.
"Well, Dirk Peters," I said, "I will ask you, since you were anxious to hide your name, what it was that induced you to reveal it, when the Halbrane was moored off Tsalal Island; why you did not keep to the name of Hunt?"
"Sir-understand me-there was hesitation about going farther-they wanted to turn back. This was decided, and then I thought that by telling who I was-Dirk Peters-of the Grampus-poor Pym's companion-I should be heard; they would belieye with me that he was still living, they would go in search of him! And yet, it was a serious thing to do-to acknowledge that I was Dirk Peters, he who had killed Parker! But hunger, devouring hunger!"
"Come, come, Dirk Peters," said I, "you exaggerate! If the lot had fallen to you, you would have incurred the fate of Parker. You cannot be charged with a crime."
"Sir, would Parker's family speak of it as you do?"
"His family! Had he then relations?"
"Yes-and that is why Pym changed his name in the narrative. Parker's name was not Parker-it was-"
"Arthur Pym was right," I said, interrupting him quickly, "and as for me, I do not wish to know Parker's real name. Keep this secret."
"No, I will tell it to you. It weighs too heavily on me, and I shall be relieved, perhaps, when I have told you, Mr. Jeorling."
"No, Dirk Peters, no!"
"His name was Holt-Ned Holt."
"Holt!" I exclaimed, "the same name as our sailing-master's."
"Who is his own brother, sir."
"Martin Holt?"
"Yes-understand me-his brother."
"But he believes that Ned Holt perished in the wreck of the Grampus with the rest."
"It was not so, and if he learned that I-'
Just at that instant a violent shock flung me out of my bunk.
The schooner had made such a lurch to the port side that she was near foundering.
I heard an angry voice cry out:
"What dog is that at the helm?"
It was the voice of West, and the person he was Hearne.
I rushed out of my cabin.
"Have you let the wheel go?" repeated West, who had seized Hearne by the collar of his jersey.
"Lieutenant-I don't know-"
"Yes, I tell you, you have let it go. A little more and ; the schooner would have capsized under full sail."
"Gratian," cried West, calling one of the sailors, "take the helm; and you, Hearne, go down into the hold."
On a sudden the cry of "Land!" resounded, and every eye was turned southwards,
CHAPTER XIX.
LAND?
"Land" is the only word to be found at the beginning of the nineteenth chapter of Edgar Poe's book. I thought it would be a good idea-placing after it a note of interrogation-to put it as a heading to this portion of our narrative.