I gave a last look at the wounded man. “He will be dead in two hours.” “Can nothing save him?” “Nothing.” Captain Nemo’s hand contracted, and some tears glistened in his eyes, which I thought incapable of shedding any. For some moments I still watched the dying man, whose life ebbed slowly. His pallor increased under the electric light that was shed over his death-bed. I looked at his intelligent forehead, furrowed with premature wrinkles, produced probably by misfortune and sorrow. I tried to learn the secret of his life from the last words that escaped his lips. “You can go now, M. Aronnax,” said the Captain. I left him in the dying man’s cabin, and returned to my room much affected by this scene. During the whole day, I was haunted by uncomfortable suspicions, and at night I slept badly, and between my broken dreams I fancied I heard distant sighs like the notes of a funeral psalm. Were they the prayers of the dead, murmured in that language that I could not understand? The next morning I went on to the bridge. Captain Nemo was there before me. As soon as he perceived me he came to me. “Professor, will it be convenient to you to make a submarine excursion to-day?” “With my companions?” I asked. “If they like.” “We obey your orders, Captain.” “Will you be so good then as to put on your cork jackets?” It was not a question of dead or dying.