At once we moved aboard the Ghost, occupying our old state-rooms
and cooking in the galley. The imprisonment of Wolf Larsen had
happened most opportunely, for what must have been the Indian
summer of this high latitude was gone and drizzling stormy weather
had set in. We were very comfortable, and the inadequate shears,
with the foremast suspended from them, gave a business-like air to
the schooner and a promise of departure.

And now that we had Wolf Larsen in irons, how little did we need
it! Like his first attack, his second had been accompanied by
serious disablement. Maud made the discovery in the afternoon
while trying to give him nourishment. He had shown signs of
consciousness, and she had spoken to him, eliciting no response.
He was lying on his left side at the time, and in evident pain.
With a restless movement he rolled his head around, clearing his
left ear from the pillow against which it had been pressed. At
once he heard and answered her, and at once she came to me.

Pressing the pillow against his left ear, I asked him if he heard
me, but he gave no sign. Removing the pillow and, repeating the
question he answered promptly that he did.

"Do you know you are deaf in the right ear?" I asked.

"Yes," he answered in a low, strong voice, "and worse than that.
My whole right side is affected. It seems asleep. I cannot move
arm or leg."

"Feigning again?" I demanded angrily.

He shook his head, his stern mouth shaping the strangest, twisted
smile. It was indeed a twisted smile, for it was on the left side
only, the facial muscles of the right side moving not at all.

"That was the last play of the Wolf," he said. "I am paralysed. I
shall never walk again. Oh, only on the other side," he added, as
though divining the suspicious glance I flung at his left leg, the
knee of which had just then drawn up, and elevated the blankets.

"It's unfortunate," he continued. "I'd liked to have done for you
first, Hump. And I thought I had that much left in me."

"But why?" I asked; partly in horror, partly out of curiosity.

Again his stern mouth framed the twisted smile, as he said:

"Oh, just to be alive, to be living and doing, to be the biggest
bit of the ferment to the end, to eat you. But to die this way."

He shrugged his shoulders, or attempted to shrug them, rather, for
the left shoulder alone moved. Like the smile, the shrug was
twisted.

"But how can you account for it?" I asked. "Where is the seat of
your trouble?"

"The brain," he said at once. "It was those cursed headaches
brought it on."

"Symptoms," I said.

He nodded his head. "There is no accounting for it. I was never
sick in my life. Something's gone wrong with my brain. A cancer,
a tumour, or something of that nature,--a thing that devours and
destroys. It's attacking my nerve-centres, eating them up, bit by
bit, cell by cell--from the pain."

"The motor-centres, too," I suggested.

"So it would seem; and the curse of it is that I must lie here,
conscious, mentally unimpaired, knowing that the lines are going
down, breaking bit by bit communication with the world. I cannot
see, hearing and feeling are leaving me, at this rate I shall soon
cease to speak; yet all the time I shall be here, alive, active,
and powerless."

"When you say YOU are here, I'd suggest the likelihood of the
soul," I said.

"Bosh!" was his retort. "It simply means that in the attack on my
brain the higher psychical centres are untouched. I can remember,
I can think and reason. When that goes, I go. I am not. The
soul?"

He broke out in mocking laughter, then turned his left ear to the
pillow as a sign that he wished no further conversation.

Maud and I went about our work oppressed by the fearful fate which
had overtaken him,--how fearful we were yet fully to realize.
There was the awfulness of retribution about it. Our thoughts were
deep and solemn, and we spoke to each other scarcely above
whispers.

"You might remove the handcuffs," he said that night, as we stood
in consultation over him. "It's dead safe. I'm a paralytic now.
The next thing to watch out for is bed sores."

He smiled his twisted smile, and Maud, her eyes wide with horror,
was compelled to turn away her head.

"Do you know that your smile is crooked?" I asked him; for I knew
that she must attend him, and I wished to save her as much as
possible.

"Then I shall smile no more," he said calmly. "I thought something
was wrong. My right cheek has been numb all day. Yes, and I've
had warnings of this for the last three days; by spells, my right
side seemed going to sleep, sometimes arm or hand, sometimes leg or
foot."

"So my smile is crooked?" he queried a short while after. "Well,
consider henceforth that I smile internally, with my soul, if you
please, my soul. Consider that I am smiling now."

And for the space of several minutes he lay there, quiet, indulging
his grotesque fancy.

The man of him was not changed. It was the old, indomitable,
terrible Wolf Larsen, imprisoned somewhere within that flesh which
had once been so invincible and splendid. Now it bound him with
insentient fetters, walling his soul in darkness and silence,
blocking it from the world which to him had been a riot of action.
No more would he conjugate the verb "to do in every mood and
tense." "To be" was all that remained to him--to be, as he had
defined death, without movement; to will, but not to execute; to
think and reason and in the spirit of him to be as alive as ever,
but in the flesh to be dead, quite dead.

And yet, though I even removed the handcuffs, we could not adjust
ourselves to his condition. Our minds revolted. To us he was full
of potentiality. We knew not what to expect of him next, what
fearful thing, rising above the flesh, he might break out and do.
Our experience warranted this state of mind, and we went about our
work with anxiety always upon us.

I had solved the problem which had arisen through the shortness of
the shears. By means of the watch-tackle (I had made a new one), I
heaved the butt of the foremast across the rail and then lowered it
to the deck. Next, by means of the shears, I hoisted the main boom
on board. Its forty feet of length would supply the height
necessary properly to swing the mast. By means of a secondary
tackle I had attached to the shears, I swung the boom to a nearly
perpendicular position, then lowered the butt to the deck, where,
to prevent slipping, I spiked great cleats around it. The single
block of my original shears-tackle I had attached to the end of the
boom. Thus, by carrying this tackle to the windlass, I could raise
and lower the end of the boom at will, the butt always remaining
stationary, and, by means of guys, I could swing the boom from side
to side. To the end of the boom I had likewise rigged a hoisting
tackle; and when the whole arrangement was completed I could not
but be startled by the power and latitude it gave me.

Of course, two days' work was required for the accomplishment of
this part of my task, and it was not till the morning of the third
day that I swung the foremast from the deck and proceeded to square
its butt to fit the step. Here I was especially awkward. I sawed
and chopped and chiselled the weathered wood till it had the
appearance of having been gnawed by some gigantic mouse. But it
fitted.

"It will work, I know it will work," I cried.

"Do you know Dr. Jordan's final test of truth?" Maud asked.

I shook my head and paused in the act of dislodging the shavings
which had drifted down my neck.

"Can we make it work? Can we trust our lives to it? is the test."

"He is a favourite of yours," I said.

"When I dismantled my old Pantheon and cast out Napoleon and Caesar
and their fellows, I straightway erected a new Pantheon," she
answered gravely, "and the first I installed as Dr. Jordan."

"A modern hero."

"And a greater because modern," she added. "How can the Old World
heroes compare with ours?"

I shook my head. We were too much alike in many things for
argument. Our points of view and outlook on life at least were
very alike.

"For a pair of critics we agree famously," I laughed.

"And as shipwright and able assistant," she laughed back.

But there was little time for laughter in those days, what of our
heavy work and of the awfulness of Wolf Larsen's living death.

He had received another stroke. He had lost his voice, or he was
losing it. He had only intermittent use of it. As he phrased it,
the wires were like the stock market, now up, now down.
Occasionally the wires were up and he spoke as well as ever, though
slowly and heavily. Then speech would suddenly desert him, in the
middle of a sentence perhaps, and for hours, sometimes, we would
wait for the connection to be re-established. He complained of
great pain in his head, and it was during this period that he
arranged a system of communication against the time when speech
should leave him altogether--one pressure of the hand for "yes,"
two for "no." It was well that it was arranged, for by evening his
voice had gone from him. By hand pressures, after that, he
answered our questions, and when he wished to speak he scrawled his
thoughts with his left hand, quite legibly, on a sheet of paper.

The fierce winter had now descended upon us. Gale followed gale,
with snow and sleet and rain. The seals had started on their great
southern migration, and the rookery was practically deserted. I
worked feverishly. In spite of the bad weather, and of the wind
which especially hindered me, I was on deck from daylight till dark
and making substantial progress.

I profited by my lesson learned through raising the shears and then
climbing them to attach the guys. To the top of the foremast,
which was just lifted conveniently from the deck, I attached the
rigging, stays and throat and peak halyards. As usual, I had
underrated the amount of work involved in this portion of the task,
and two long days were necessary to complete it. And there was so
much yet to be done--the sails, for instance, which practically had
to be made over.

While I toiled at rigging the foremast, Maud sewed on canvas, ready
always to drop everything and come to my assistance when more hands
than two were required. The canvas was heavy and hard, and she
sewed with the regular sailor's palm and three-cornered sail-
needle. Her hands were soon sadly blistered, but she struggled
bravely on, and in addition doing the cooking and taking care of
the sick man.

"A fig for superstition," I said on Friday morning. "That mast
goes in to-day.'

Everything was ready for the attempt. Carrying the boom-tackle to
the windlass, I hoisted the mast nearly clear of the deck. Making
this tackle fast, I took to the windlass the shears-tackle (which
was connected with the end of the boom), and with a few turns had
the mast perpendicular and clear.

Maud clapped her hands the instant she was relieved from holding
the turn, crying:

"It works! It works! We'll trust our lives to it!"

Then she assumed a rueful expression.

"It's not over the hole," she add. "Will you have to begin all
over?"

I smiled in superior fashion, and, slacking off on one of the boom-
guys and taking in on the other, swung the mast perfectly in the
centre of the deck. Still it was not over the hole. Again the
rueful expression came on her face, and again I smiled in a
superior way. Slacking away on the boom-tackle and hoisting an
equivalent amount on the shears-tackle, I brought the butt of the
mast into position directly over the hole in the deck. Then I gave
Maud careful instructions for lowering away and went into the hold
to the step on the schooner's bottom.

I called to her, and the mast moved easily and accurately.
Straight toward the square hole of the step the square butt
descended; but as it descended it slowly twisted so that square
would not fit into square. But I had not even a moment's
indecision. Calling to Maud to cease lowering, I went on deck and
made the watch-tackle fast to the mast with a rolling hitch. I
left Maud to pull on it while I went below. By the light of the
lantern I saw the butt twist slowly around till its sides coincided
with the sides of the step. Maud made fast and returned to the
windlass. Slowly the butt descended the several intervening
inches, at the same time slightly twisting again. Again Maud
rectified the twist with the watch-tackle, and again she lowered
away from the windlass. Square fitted into square. The mast was
stepped.

I raised a shout, and she ran down to see. In the yellow lantern
light we peered at what we had accomplished. We looked at each
other, and our hands felt their way and clasped. The eyes of both
of us, I think, were moist with the joy of success.

"It was done so easily after all," I remarked. "All the work was
in the preparation."

"And all the wonder in the completion," Maud added. "I can
scarcely bring myself to realize that that great mast is really up
and in; that you have lifted it from the water, swung it through
the air, and deposited it here where it belongs. It is a Titan's
task."

"And they made themselves many inventions," I began merrily, then
paused to sniff the air.

I looked hastily at the lantern. It was not smoking. Again I
sniffed.

"Something is burning," Maud said, with sudden conviction.

We sprang together for the ladder, but I raced past her to the
deck. A dense volume of smoke was pouring out of the steerage
companion-way.

"The Wolf is not yet dead," I muttered to myself as I sprang down
through the smoke.

It was so thick in the confined space that I was compelled to feel
my way; and so potent was the spell of Wolf Larsen on my
imagination, I was quite prepared for the helpless giant to grip my
neck in a strangle hold. I hesitated, the desire to race back and
up the steps to the deck almost overpowering me. Then I
recollected Maud. The vision of her, as I had last seen her, in
the lantern light of the schooner's hold, her brown eyes warm and
moist with joy, flashed before me, and I knew that I could not go
back.

I was choking and suffocating by the time I reached Wolf Larsen's
bunk. I reached my hand and felt for his. He was lying
motionless, but moved slightly at the touch of my hand. I felt
over and under his blankets. There was no warmth, no sign of fire.
Yet that smoke which blinded me and made me cough and gasp must
have a source. I lost my head temporarily and dashed frantically
about the steerage. A collision with the table partially knocked
the wind from my body and brought me to myself. I reasoned that a
helpless man could start a fire only near to where he lay.

I returned to Wolf Larsen's bunk. There I encountered Maud. How
long she had been there in that suffocating atmosphere I could not
guess.

"Go up on deck!" I commanded peremptorily.

"But, Humphrey--" she began to protest in a queer, husky voice.

"Please! please!" I shouted at her harshly.

She drew away obediently, and then I thought, What if she cannot
find the steps? I started after her, to stop at the foot of the
companion-way. Perhaps she had gone up. As I stood there,
hesitant, I heard her cry softly:

"Oh, Humphrey, I am lost."

I found her fumbling at the wall of the after bulkhead, and, half
leading her, half carrying her, I took her up the companion-way.
The pure air was like nectar. Maud was only faint and dizzy, and I
left her lying on the deck when I took my second plunge below.

The source of the smoke must be very close to Wolf Larsen--my mind
was made up to this, and I went straight to his bunk. As I felt
about among his blankets, something hot fell on the back of my
hand. It burned me, and I jerked my hand away. Then I understood.
Through the cracks in the bottom of the upper bunk he had set fire
to the mattress. He still retained sufficient use of his left arm
to do this. The damp straw of the mattress, fired from beneath and
denied air, had been smouldering all the while.

As I dragged the mattress out of the bunk it seemed to disintegrate
in mid-air, at the same time bursting into flames. I beat out the
burning remnants of straw in the bunk, then made a dash for the
deck for fresh air.

Several buckets of water sufficed to put out the burning mattress
in the middle of the steerage floor; and ten minutes later, when
the smoke had fairly cleared, I allowed Maud to come below. Wolf
Larsen was unconscious, but it was a matter of minutes for the
fresh air to restore him. We were working over him, however, when
he signed for paper and pencil.

"Pray do not interrupt me," he wrote. "I am smiling."

"I am still a bit of the ferment, you see," he wrote a little
later.

"I am glad you are as small a bit as you are," I said.

"Thank you," he wrote. "But just think of how much smaller I shall
be before I die."

"And yet I am all here, Hump," he wrote with a final flourish. "I
can think more clearly than ever in my life before. Nothing to
disturb me. Concentration is perfect. I am all here and more than
here."

It was like a message from the night of the grave; for this man's
body had become his mausoleum. And there, in so strange sepulchre,
his spirit fluttered and lived. It would flutter and live till the
last line of communication was broken, and after that who was to
say how much longer it might continue to flutter and live?