"Mr. Aronnax," he said, "I do not know with what formidable being I
have to deal, and I will not imprudently risk my frigate in the midst
of this darkness. Besides, how attack this unknown thing, how defend
one's self from it? Wait for daylight, and the scene will change."

"You have no further doubt, captain, of the nature of the animal?"

"No, sir; it is evidently a gigantic narwhal, and an electric one."

"Perhaps," added I, "one can only approach it with a torpedo."

"Undoubtedly," replied the captain, "if it possesses such dreadful
power, it is the most terrible animal that ever was created. That is
why, sir, I must be on my guard."

The crew were on their feet all night. No one thought of sleep. The
Abraham Lincoln, not being able to struggle with such velocity, had
moderated its pace, and sailed at half speed. For its part, the
narwhal, imitating the frigate, let the waves rock it at will, and
seemed decided not to leave the scene of the struggle. Towards
midnight, however, it disappeared, or, to use a more appropriate term,
it "died out" like a large glow-worm. Had it fled? One could only
fear, not hope it. But at seven minutes to one o'clock in the morning
a deafening whistling was heard, like that produced by a body of water
rushing with great violence.

The captain, Ned Land, and I were then on the poop, eagerly peering
through the profound darkness.

"Ned Land," asked the commander, "you have often heard the roaring of
whales?"

"Often, sir; but never such whales the sight of which brought me in two
thousand dollars. If I can only approach within four harpoons' length
of it!"

"But to approach it," said the commander, "I ought to put a whaler at
your disposal?"

"Certainly, sir."

"That will be trifling with the lives of my men."

"And mine too," simply said the harpooner.

Towards two o'clock in the morning, the burning light reappeared, not
less intense, about five miles to windward of the Abraham Lincoln.
Notwithstanding the distance, and the noise of the wind and sea, one
heard distinctly the loud strokes of the animal's tail, and even its
panting breath. It seemed that, at the moment that the enormous
narwhal had come to take breath at the surface of the water, the air
was engulfed in its lungs, like the steam in the vast cylinders of a
machine of two thousand horse-power.

"Hum!" thought I, "a whale with the strength of a cavalry regiment
would be a pretty whale!"

We w