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 surgeon. I practised many months before I entered the museum.”

“Good,” was the reply.

My answer evidently satisfied the captain. But not knowing what might come of it, I waited for further questions, resolving to reply according to circumstances.

“M. Aronnax,” said the captain, “will you extend your skill to one of my men?”

“There is an invalid on board, then?”

“Yes.”

“I am ready.”

“Come with me.”

I confess that my heart was beating. I do not know why I perceived some connection between this patient and the events of the preceding day, and the mystery troubled me at least as much as the sick man.

Captain Nemo led me abaft, into a cabin close to the men’s quarters.

There lay a man about forty years old, a determined face too—a regular Anglo-Saxon.

I knelt beside him. He was not only a sick, but a wounded man. His head was wrapped in blood-stained bandages, and lay on a double pillow. I took off the bandages, and the wounded man, gazing at me with his great round eyes, made no sign and uttered no complaint. The wound was fearful. The skull, fractured by some blunt instrument, had laid the brain bare, and the cerebral substance had suffered complete attrition. Some clots of blood had formed within the mass, which was like the dregs of wine. There was a contusion and concussion of the brain here. The breathing of the patient was laboured, and spasmodic movements agitated his