slim body to my assistance.

At the end of an hour the single and double blocks came together at the
top of the shears. I could hoist no more. And yet the mast was not
swung entirely inboard. The butt rested against the outside of the port
rail, while the top of the mast overhung the water far beyond the
starboard rail. My shears were too short. All my work had been for
nothing. But I no longer despaired in the old way. I was acquiring more
confidence in myself and more confidence in the possibilities of
windlasses, shears, and hoisting tackles. There was a way in which it
could be done, and it remained for me to find that way.

While I was considering the problem, Wolf Larsen came on deck. We
noticed something strange about him at once. The indecisiveness, or
feebleness, of his movements was more pronounced. His walk was actually
tottery as he came down the port side of the cabin. At the break of the
poop he reeled, raised one hand to his eyes with the familiar brushing
gesture, and fell down the steps--still on his feet--to the main deck,
across which he staggered, falling and flinging out his arms for support.
He regained his balance by the steerage companion-way and stood there
dizzily for a space, when he suddenly crumpled up and collapsed, his legs
bending under him as he sank to the deck.

"One of his attacks," I whispered to Maud.

She nodded her head; and I could see sympathy warm in eyes.

We went up to him, but he seemed unconscious, breathing spasmodically.
She took charge of him, lifting his head to keep the blood out of it and
despatching me to the cabin for a pillow. I also brought blankets, and
we made him comfortable. I took his pulse. It beat steadily and strong,
and was quite normal. This puzzled me. I became suspicious.

"What if he should be feigning this?" I asked, still holding his wrist.

Maud shook her head, and there was reproof in her eyes. But just then
the wrist I held leaped from my hand, and the hand clasped like a steel
trap about my wrist. I cried aloud in awful fear, a wild inarticulate
cry; and I caught one glimpse of his face, malignant and triumphant, as
his other hand compassed my body and I was drawn down to him in a
terrible grip.

My wrist was released, but his other arm, passed around my back, held
both my arms so that I could not move. His free hand went to my throat,
and in that moment I knew the bitterest foretaste of death earned by
one's own idio