Captain Len Guy was shut up in his cabin, but every moment I expected to see him come out, give one last look around the waste of waters, and then order the ship's course to be reversed. Nevertheless, on the next day the schooner was sailing in the same direction. Unfortunately--for the circumstance had some gravity--a mist was beginning to come down on us. I could not keep still, I confess. My apprehensions were redoubled. It was evident that West was only awaiting the order to change the helm. What mortal anguish soever the captain's must be, I understood too well that he would not give that order without hesitation. For several days past I had not seen the half-breed, or, at least, I had not exchanged a word with him. He was boycotted by the whole crew, with the exception of the boatswain, who was careful to address him, although he rarely got a word in return. Dirk Peters took not the faintest notice of this state of things. He remained completely absorbed in his own thoughts, yet, had he heard West give the word to steer north, I know not to what acts of violence he might have been driven. He seemed to avoid me; was this from a desire not to compromise me? On the 17th, in the afternoon, however, Dirk Peters manifested an intention of speaking to me, and never, no, never, could I have imagined what I was to learn in that interview. It was about half-past two, and, not feeling well, I had gone to my cabin, where the side window was open, while that at the back was closed. I heard a knock at the door, and asked who was there. "Dirk Peters," was the reply. "You want to speak to me?" "Yes." "I am coming out." "If you please--I should prefer--may I come into your cabin?" "Come in." He entered, and shut the door behind him. Without rising I signed to him to seat himself in the arm-chair, but he remained standing. "What do you want of me, Dirk Peters?" I asked at length, as he seemed unable to make up his mind to speak. "I want to tell you something--because it seems well that you should know it, and you only. In the crew--they must never know it." "If it is a grave matter, and you fear any indiscretion, Dirk Peters, why do you speak to me?" "If!--I must! Ah, yes! I must! It is impossible to keep it there! It weighs on me like a stone." And Dirk Peters struck his breast violently. Then he resumed: "Yes! I am always afraid it may escape me during my sleep, and that someone will hear it, for I dream of it, and in dreaming--" "You dream," I replied, "and of what?" "Of him, of him. Therefore it is that I sleep in corners, all alone, for fear that his true name should be discovered." Then it struck me that the half-breed was perhaps about to respond to an inquiry which I had not yet made--why he had gone to live at the Falklands under the name of Hunt after leaving Illinois? I put the question to him, and he replied,-- "It is not that; no, it is not that I wish--"