“M. Aronnax,” he said, “I do not know with what formidable being I have to deal, and I will not imprudently risk my frigate in the midst of this darkness. Besides, how attack this unknown thing, how defend one’s self from it? Wait for daylight, and the scene will change.” “You have no further doubt, captain, of the nature of the animal?” “No, sir; it is evidently a gigantic narwhal, and an electric one.” “Perhaps,” added I, “one can only approach it with a gymnotus or a torpedo.” “Undoubtedly,” replied the captain, “if it possesses such dreadful power, it is the most terrible animal that ever was created. That is why, sir, I must be on my guard.” The crew were on their feet all night. No one thought of sleep. The _Abraham Lincoln_, not being able to struggle with such velocity, had moderated its pace, and sailed at half speed. For its part, the narwhal, imitating the frigate, let the waves rock it at will, and seemed decided not to leave the scene of the struggle. Towards midnight, however, it disappeared, or, to use a more appropriate term, it “died out” like a large glow-worm. Had it fled? One could only fear, not hope. But at seven minutes to one o’clock in the morning a deafening whistling was heard, like that produced by a body of water rushing with great violence. The captain, Ned Land, and I, were then on the poop, eagerly peering through the profound darkness. “Ned Land,” asked the commander, “you have often heard the roaring of whales?” “Often, sir; but never such whales the sight of which brought me in two thousand dollars. If I can only approach within four harpoon lengths of it!” “But to approach it,” said the commander, “I ought to put a whaler at your disposal?” “Certainly, sir.” “That will be trifling with the lives of my men.” “And mine too,” simply said the harpooner. Towards two o’clock in the morning, the burning light reappeared, not less intense, about five miles to windward of the _Abraham Lincoln_. Notwithstanding the distance, and the noise of the wind and sea, one heard distinctly the loud strokes of the animal’s tail, and even its panting breath. It seemed that, at the moment that the enormous narwhal had come to take breath at the surface of the water, the air was engulfed in its lungs, like the steam in the vast cylinders of a machine of two thousand horse-power. “Hum!” thought I, “a whale with the strength of a cavalry regiment would be a pretty whale!” We were on the _qui vive_ till daylight, and prepared for the combat. The fishing implements were laid along the hammock nettings. The second lieutenant loaded the blunderbusses, which could throw harpoons to the distance of a mile, and long duck-guns, with explosive bullets, which inflicted mortal wounds even to the most terrible animals. Ned Land contented himself with sharpening his harpoon—a terrible weapon in his hands.