But assuming the existence of this 'Black' and this 'White' being--and supposing it to be a fact that my reaching the Pole had any connection with the destruction of my race, according to the notions of that extraordinary Scotch parson--then it must have been the power of '_the Black_' which carried me, in spite of all obstacles, to the Pole. So far I can understand. But _after_ I had reached the Pole, what further use had either White or Black for me? Which was it--White or Black--that preserved my life through my long return on the ice--and _why_? It _could_ not have been 'the Black'! For I readily divine that from the moment when I touched the Pole, the only desire of the Black, which had previously preserved, must have been to destroy me, with the rest. It must have been 'the White,' then, that led me back, retarding me long, so that I should not enter the poison-cloud, and then openly presenting me the _Boreal_ to bring me home to Europe. But his motive? And the significance of these recommencing wrangles, after such a silence? This I do not understand! Curse Them, curse Them, with their mad tangles! I care nothing for Them! Are there any White Idiots and Black Idiots--_at all_? Or are these Voices that I hear nothing but the cries of my own strained nerves, and I all mad and morbid, morbid and mad, mad, my good God? This inertia here is _not good_ for me! This stalking about the palace! and long thinkings about Earth and Heaven, Black and White, White and Black, and things beyond the stars! My brain is like bursting through the walls of my poor head. To-morrow, then, to Constantinople. * * * * *