"I filled and lighted a lantern, and gave it to the man on watch with
instructions to hang it to the stump of the mizzen and to call his
relief at the end of four hours. Then, with doors and windows closed,
we went to sleep, or tried to go to sleep. I succeeded first, I think,
for up to the last of consciousness I could hear the mutterings of the
men; when I awakened, they were all asleep, and the cabin clock, high
above the water, told me that, though it was still dark, it was six in
the morning.

"I went on deck; the lantern still burned at the stump of mizzenmast
but the lookout was gone. He had not lived long enough to be relieved,
as I learned by going below and finding that no one had been called.

"We were but six, now--one sailor and the bos'n, the cook and steward,
the professor and myself."

The old artist paused, while he refilled and lighted his pipe. I
noticed that the hand that held the match shook perceptibly, as though
the memories of that awful experience had affected his nerves. I know
that the recital had affected mine; for I joined him in a smoke, my
hands shaking also.

"Why," I asked, after a moment of silence, "if it was a deep-sea
creature, did it not die from the lesser pressure at the surface?"

"Why do not men die on the mountaintops?" he answered. "Or up in
balloons? The record is seven miles high, I think; but they lived. They
suffered from cold, and from lack of oxygen--that is, no matter how
fast, or deeply they breathed, they could not get enough. But the lack
of pressure did not trouble them; the human body can adjust itself.

"Conversely, however, an increase of pressure may be fatal. A man
dragged down more than one hundred and fifty feet may be crushed; and a
surface fish sent to the bottom of the sea may die from the pressure.
It is simple; it is like the difference between a weight lifted from us
and a weight added."

"Did this thing kill any more men?" I asked.

"All but the professor and myself, and it almost killed me. Look here."

He removed his cravat and collar, pulled down his shirt, and exposed
two livid scars about an inch in diameter, and two apart.

"I lost all the blood I could spare through those two holes," he said,
as he readjusted his apparel; "but I saved enough to keep me alive."

"Go on with the yarn," I asked. "I promise you I will not sleep
to-night."

"Perhaps I will not sleep myself," he answered, with a mournful smile.
"Some things should be