Near two o’clock I was busy organizing my notes in the lounge, when the captain opened the door and appeared. I bowed to him. He gave me an almost imperceptible bow in return, without saying a word to me. I resumed my work, hoping he might give me some explanation of the previous afternoon’s events. He did nothing of the sort. I stared at him. His face looked exhausted; his reddened eyes hadn’t been refreshed by sleep; his facial features expressed profound sadness, real chagrin. He walked up and down, sat and stood, picked up a book at random, discarded it immediately, consulted his instruments without taking his customary notes, and seemed unable to rest easy for an instant. Finally he came over to me and said: “Are you a physician, Professor Aronnax?” This inquiry was so unexpected that I stared at him a good while without replying. “Are you a physician?” he repeated. “Several of your scientific colleagues took their degrees in medicine, such as Gratiolet, Moquin-Tandon, and others.” “That’s right,” I said, “I am a doctor, I used to be on call at the hospitals. I was in practice for several years before joining the museum.” “Excellent, sir.” My reply obviously pleased Captain Nemo. But not knowing what he was driving at, I waited for further questions, ready to reply as circumstances dictated. “Professor Aronnax,” the captain said to me, “would you consent to give your medical attentions to one of my men?” “Someone is sick?” “Yes.” “I’m ready to go with you.” “Come.” I admit that my heart was pounding. Lord knows why, but I saw a definite connection between this sick crewman and yesterday’s happenings, and the mystery of those events concerned me at least as much as the man’s sickness. Captain Nemo led me to the Nautilus’s stern and invited me into a cabin located next to the sailors’ quarters. On a bed there lay a man some forty years old, with strongly molded features, the very image of an Anglo-Saxon. I bent over him. Not only was he sick, he was wounded. Swathed in blood-soaked linen, his head was resting on a folded pillow. I undid the linen bandages, while the wounded man gazed with great staring eyes and let me proceed without making a single complaint. It was a horrible wound. The cranium had been smashed open by some blunt instrument, leaving the naked brains exposed, and the cerebral matter had suffered deep abrasions. Blood clots had formed in this dissolving mass, taking on the color of wine dregs. Both contusion and concussion of the brain had occurred. The sick man’s breathing was labored, and muscle spasms quivered in his face. Cerebral inflammation was complete and had brought on a paralysis of movement and sensation.