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 this idea only explained one of the sides of Captain Nemo’s character. In fact, the mystery of the night during which we had been imprisoned and drugged, the precaution so violently taken by Captain Nemo to snatch the telescope from my grasp, the mortal wound inflicted upon the sailor by some unexplained collision of the Nautilus—all these things led me into a new vein of thought. No; Captain Nemo did not content himself by merely avoiding mankind. His formidable apparatus not only served his tastes, but for some terrible vengeance.

At this time nothing is clear to me. I can only grope in the dark, and only write, so to speak, under the dictation of events.

Furthermore, nothing binds us to Captain Nemo. He knows that escape from the Nautilus is impossible. We are not even prisoners on parole. No promise binds us. We are merely captives—prisoners, called guests by courtesy. Ned Land has never given up the idea of recovering his liberty. He will surely take advantage of the very first opportunity that chance may throw in his way. I shall do the same. Nevertheless, it will not be without a sense of regret that I shall carry away with me all the mystery of the Nautilus that the captain’s kindness has permitted me to penetrate. For, after all, was he a man to be hated or admired? Was he a victim or an executioner? And then, to be frank, I would like, before I quitted the vessel for ever, to finish this tour of the submarine world whose opening scenes are so splendid. I should like to see the marvels scattered beneath the seas, to behold what man never yet has seen, even if I pay by my life for this insatiable desire for knowledge. What have I discovered so far? Nothing, or scarcely more than nothing, since we have only travelled 6,000 leagues across the Pacific. Still, I know