But what a lot of mysteries to clear up, how many inexplicable things to explain—­the origin of this d’Artigas, his intentions as to the future, whither we are bound, the port to which the schooner belongs, and this mysterious progress through the water without sails and without screws, at a speed of at least ten knots an hour!

The air becoming keener as night deepens, I close and secure the port-hole, and as my cabin is bolted on the outside, the best thing I can do is to get into my bunk and let myself be gently rocked to sleep by the broad Atlantic in this mysterious cradle, the Ebba.

The next morning I rise at daybreak, and having performed my ablutions, dress myself and wait.

Presently the idea of trying the door occurs to me.  I find that it has been unbolted, and pushing it open, climb the iron ladder and emerge on deck.

The crew are washing down the deck, and standing aft and conversing are two men, one of whom is the captain.  The latter manifests no surprise at seeing me, and indicates my presence to his companion by a nod.

This other man, whom I have never before seen, is an individual of about fifty years of age, whose dark hair is streaked with gray.  His features are delicately chiselled, his eyes are bright, and his expression is intelligent and not at all displeasing.  He is somewhat of the Grecian type, and T have no doubt that he is of Hellenic origin when I hear him called Serko—­Engineer Serko—­by the Captain of the Ebba.

As to the latter, he is called Spade—­Captain Spade—­and this name has an Italian twang about it.  Thus there is a Greek, an Italian, and a crew recruited from every corner of the earth to man a schooner with a Norwegian name!  This mixture strikes me as being suspicious.

And that Count d’Artigas, with his Spanish name and Asiatic type, where does he come from?

Captain Spade and Engineer Serko continue to converse in a low tone of voice.  The former is keeping a sharp eye on the man at the wheel, who does not appear to pay any particular attention to the compass in front of him.  He seems to pay more heed to the gestures of one of the sailors stationed forward, and who signals to him to put the helm to port or to starboard.

Thomas Roch is near them, gazing vacantly out upon the vast expanse which is not limited on the horizon by a single speck of land.  Two sailors watch his every movement.  It is evidently feared that the madman may possibly attempt to jump overboard.

I wonder whether I shall be permitted to communicate with my ward.

I walk towards him, and Captain Spade and Engineer Serko watch me.

Thomas Roch doesn’t see me coming, and I stand beside him.  Still he takes no notice of me, and makes no movement.  His eyes, which sparkle brightly, wander over the ocean, and he draws in deep breaths of the salt, vivifying atmosphere.  Added to the air surcharged with oxygen is a magnificent sunset in a cloudless sky.  Does he perceive the change in his situation?  Has he already forgotten about Healthful House, the pavilion in which he was a prisoner, and Gaydon, his keeper?  It is highly probable.  The past has presumably been effaced from his memory and he lives solely in the present.