"I insist, Dirk Peters, and I desire to know in the first place for what reason you did not remain in America, for what reason you chose the Falklands--" "For what reason, sir? Because I wanted to get near Pym, my poor Pym--because I hoped to find an opportunity at the Falklands of embarking on a whaling ship bound for the southern sea." "But that name of Hunt?" "I would not bear my own name any longer--on account of the affair of the _Grampus_." The half-breed was alluding to the scene of the "short straw" (or lot-drawing) on board the American brig, when it was decided between Augustus Barnard, Arthur Pym, Dirk Peters, and Parker, the sailor, that one of the four should be sacrificed--as food for the three others. I remembered the obstinate resistance of Arthur Pym, and how it was impossible for him to refuse to take his part in the tragedy about to be performed--he says this himself--and the horrible act whose remembrance must poison the existence of all those who had survived it. Oh, that lot-drawing! The "short straws" were little splinters of wood of uneven length which Arthur Pym held in his hand. The shortest was to designate him who should be immolated. And he speaks of the sort of involuntary fierce desire to deceive his companions that he felt--"to cheat" is the word he uses--but he did not "cheat," and he asks pardon for having had the idea! Let us try to put ourselves in his place! He made up his mind, and held out his hand, closed on the four slips. Dirk Peters drew the first. Fate had favoured him. He had nothing more to fear. Arthur Pym calculated that one more chance was against him. Augustus Barnard drew in his turn. Saved, too, he! And now Arthur Pym reckoned up the exact chances between Parker and himself. At that moment all the ferocity of the tiger entered into his soul. He conceived an intense and devilish hatred of his poor comrade, his fellow-man. Five minutes elapsed before Parker dared to draw. At length Arthur Pym, standing with closed eyes, not knowing whether the lot was for or against him, felt a hand seize his own. It was the hand of Dirk Peters. Arthur Pym had escaped death. And then the half-breed rushed upon Parker and stabbed him in the back. The frightful repast followed--immediately--and words are not sufficient to convey to the mind the horror of the reality. Yes! I knew that hideous story, not a fable, as I had long believed. This was what had happened on board the _Grampus_, on the 16th of July, 1827, and vainly did I try to understand Dirk Peters' reason for recalling it to my recollection. "Well, Dirk Peters," I said, "I will ask you, since you were anxious to hide your name, what it was that induced you to reveal it, when the _Halbrane_ was moored off Tsalal Island; why you did not keep to the name of Hunt?"