Suddenly Erik saw him sniff the air and then dart forward like an arrow, and stop barking beside some dark object, which was partially hidden by a mass of ice.

“Another walrus, I suppose!” he said, hurrying forward.

It was not a walrus which lay extended on the snow, and which had so excited Kaas.  It was a man, insensible, and covered with blood, whose clothing of skins was assuredly not the dress worn by any seamen of the “Alaska.”  It reminded Erik of the clothing worn by the man who had passed the winter on the “Vega.”  He raised the head of the man; it was covered with thick red hair, and it was remarkable that his nose was crushed in like that of a negro.

Erik asked himself whether he was the sport of some illusion.

He opened the man’s waistcoat, and bared his chest.  It was perhaps as much to ascertain whether his heart still beat as to seek for his name.

He found his name tattooed in blue, on a rudely designed escutcheon.  “Patrick O’Donoghan, ‘Cynthia,’” and his heart still beat.  The man was not dead.  He had a large wound in his head, another in his shoulder, and on his chest a contusion, which greatly interfered with his respiration.

“He must be carried to our place of shelter, and restored to life,” said Erik, to Mr. Hersebom.

And then he added in a low tone as if he was afraid of being overheard.

“It is he, father, whom we have been seeking for such a long time without being able to find him—­Patrick O’Donoghan—­and see he is almost unable to breathe.”

The thought that the secret of his life was known to this bloody object upon which death already appeared to have set his seal, kindled a gloomy flame in Erik’s eyes.  His adopted father divined his thoughts, and could not help shrugging his shoulders—­he seemed to say: 

“Of what use would it be to discover it now.  The knowledge of all the secrets in the world would be useless to us.”

He, however, took the body by the limbs, while Erik lifted him under the arms, and loaded with this burden they resumed their walk.

The motion made the wounded man open his eyes.  Soon the pain caused by his wounds was so great that he began to moan and utter confused cries, among which they distinguished the English word “drink!”

They were still some distance from their depot of provisions.  Erik, however, stopped and propped the unfortunate man against a hummock, and then put his leathern bottle to his lips.

It was nearly empty, but the mouthful of strong liquor that Patrick O’Donoghan swallowed seemed to restore him to life.  He looked around him, heaved a deep sigh and then said: 

“Where is Mr. Jones?”

“We found you alone on the ice,” answered Erik.  “Had you been there long?”

“I do not know!” answered the wounded man, with difficulty.  “Give me something more to drink.”  He swallowed a second mouthful and then he recovered sufficiently to be able to speak.