Canadian signalled nothing new—no land, not even a sail. The west wind blew stiffly, and the long waves gave a perceptible motion to the Nautilus.
After the air had been renewed, we descended to a depth of fifteen metres, so that we might quickly return to the surface. This operation, contrary to custom, was often performed during the day. The mate then ascended to the platform, and the usual phrase was transmitted to the interior of the vessel.
Captain Nemo did not appear. Of all the ship’s company, I only saw the impassible steward, who waited on me with his usual punctuality and silence.
About two o’clock I was in the saloon arranging my notes, when the captain entered. I saluted him. He acknowledged my greeting in an almost imperceptible manner, but did not speak. I resumed my occupation, hoping that he would offer some explanation of the events of the preceding night. He said nothing. I looked at him attentively. He appeared fatigued—his eyes had not been refreshed by sleep, and his face expressed a deep sadness, a real sorrow. He moved about, seated himself, then got up again, took up any book that came to hand, threw it down again immediately, looked at his instruments vacantly, and appeared thoroughly restless.
At length he came to me and said:
“Are you a doctor, M. Aronnax?”
I paused a little at this unexpected question.
“Are you a doctor?” repeated Captain Nemo. “Many of your colleagues have studied medicine—Gratiolet, Moquin-Tandon, and others.”
“Well, in fact,” I said, “I am a doctor, and a house-
