crept along the ice until they reached
the corpse, then drew it to them by the arms and legs and so got it
into the boat. A few strokes of the oars and the boatswain had
rejoined the schooner. The corpse, completely frozen, having been
laid at the foot of the mizen mast, Captain Len Guy approached and
examined it long and closely, as though he sought to recognize it.

It was the corpse of a sailor, dressed in coarse stuff, woollen
trousers and a patched jersey; a belt encircled his waist twice. His
death had evidently occurred some months previously, probably very
soon after the unfortunate man had been carried away by the drift.
He was about forty, with slightly grizzled hair, a mere skeleton
covered with skin. He must have suffered agonies of hunger.

Captain Len Guy lifted up the hair, which had been preserved by the
cold, raised the head, gazed upon the scaled eyelids, and finally
said with a sort of sob,--

"Patterson! Patterson!"

"Patterson?" I exclaimed.

The name, common as it was, touched some chord in my memory. When
had I heard it uttered? Had I read it anywhere?

At this moment, James West, on a hint from the boatswain, searched
the pockets of the dead man, and took out of them a knife, some
string, an empty tobacco box, and lastly a leather pocket-book
furnished with a metallic pencil.

"Give me that," said the captain. Some of the leaves were
covered with writing, almost entirely effaced by the damp. He found,
however, some words on the last page which were still legible, and
my emotion may be imagined when I heard him read aloud in a
trembling voice: "The _Jane . . ._ Tsalal island . . . by
eighty-three . . . There . . . eleven years . . . Captain . . . five
sailors surviving . . . Hasten to bring them aid."

And under these lines was a name, a signature, the name of Patterson!

Then I remembered! Patterson was the second officer of the _Jane_, the
mate of that schooner which had picked up Arthur Pym and Dirk Peters
on the wreck of the _Grampus_, the _Jane_ having reached Tsalal Island;
the _Jane_ which was attacked by natives and blown up in the midst of
those waters.

So then it was all true? Edgar Poe's work was that of an
historian, not a writer of romance? Arthur Gordon Pym's journal
had actually been confided to him! Direct relations had been
established between them! Arthur Pym existed, or rather he had
existed, he was a real being! And he had died, by a sudden and
deplorable death u