a that way beyond nature to my sight, by the contrast of the
defined shaft of gold, burning purely, with the dusk of the clouds all
about, and of the pool of dazzle at its foot with the ugly green of the
water that melted into it.

I went below and got about lighting the fire. The Frenchman lay very
quiet, under as many clothes as would fill a half-dozen of sacks. It was
bitterly cold, sharper in the cook-house than I had ever remembered it,
and I could not conceive why this should be, until I recollected that I
had forgotten to close the companion-hatch before going to bed. I
prepared some broth for my companion, and dressed some ham for myself,
and ate my breakfast, supposing he would meanwhile awake. But after
sitting some time and observing that he did not stir, a suspicion
flashed into my mind; I kneeled down, and clearing his face, listened.
He did not breathe. I brought the lanthorn to him, but his countenance
had been so changed by his unparalleled emergence from a state of middle
life into extreme old age, he was so puckered, hollowed, gaunt, his
features so distorted by the great weight of his years that I was not to
know him dead by merely viewing him. I threw the clothes off him,
listened at his mouth breathlessly, felt his hands, which were ice-cold.
Dead indeed! thought I. Great Father, 'tis Thy will! And I rose very
slowly and stood surveying the silent figure with an emotion that owed
its inspiration partly to the several miracles of vitality I had beheld
in him during our association, and to a bitter feeling of loneliness
that swelled up in me.

Yes! I had feared and detested this man, but his quick transformation
and silent dark exit affected me, and I looked down upon him sadly. Yet,
to be perfectly candid with you, I recollect that, though it occurred to
me to test if life was out of him by bringing him close to the fire and
chafing him and giving him brandy, I would not stir. No, I would not
have moved a finger to recover him, even though I should have been able
to do so by merely putting him to the furnace. He was dead, and there
was an end; and without further ado I carried him into the forecastle
and threw a hammock over him, and left him to lie there till there
should come clear water to the ship to serve him for a grave.

CHAPTER XXV.

THE SCHOONER FREES HERSELF.

All day long the weather remained sullen and still, and the swell
powerful. I was on deck at noon, looking at an iceber