AT ONCE WE MOVED ABOARD the Ghost, occupying our old staterooms 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 businesslike 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, I was 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 a strange, 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 stroke of the Wolf,' he said. 'I am paralyzed; I shall never walk again. Oh, only on the right 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 like 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 mouth framed the twisted smile, as he said:

 'Oh, just to be alive, to be living and doing, to be the biggest big 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 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 or tumor or something of that nature- a thing that devours and destroys. It's attacking my nerve centers, eating them up, bit by bit, cell by cell- from the pain.'

 'The motor centers, 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 centers are untouched. I can remember, 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 bedsores.'

 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 his spirit 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 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 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 complete 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 chiseled 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.

 Wolf Larsen had received another stroke. He had lost his voice, or 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 reestablished. 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 ............