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moment a collision might have occurred which would have been fatal to us. However, I was astonished at the manœuvres of the frigate. She fled and did not attack.
    On the captain’s face, generally so impassive, was an expression of unaccountable astonishment.
    “Mr. 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 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 it. 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 harpoons’ length 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.
    At six o‘clock day began to break; and, with the first glimmer of light, the electric light of the narwhal disappeared. At seven o’clock the day was sufficiently advanced, but a very thick sea fog obscured our view, and the best spyglasses could not pierce it. That caused disappointment and anger.
    I climbed the mizen-mast. Some officers were already perched on the mast-heads. At eight o’clock the fog lay heavily on the waves, and its thick scrolls rose little by little. The horizon grew wider and clearer at the same time. Suddenly, just as on the day before, Ned Land’s voice was heard:
    “The thing itself on the port quarter!” cried the harpooner.
    Every eye was turned towards the point indicated. There, a mile and a half from the frigate, a long blackish body emerged a