But the matter did not end as they expected. As though he were
really intoxicated by the stimulants of which he had been raving,
Flaypole at last sank down in a heap in a corner of the raft,
where he lay lost in a heavy slumber.
CHAPTER LII.
JANUARY 25th.--Last night was very misty, and for some
unaccountable reason, one of the hottest that can be imagined.
The atmosphere was really so stifling, that it seemed as if it
only required a spark to set it alight. The raft was not only
quite stationary, but did not even rise and fall with any motion
of the waves.
During the night I tried to count how many there were now on
board, but I was utterly unable to collect my ideas sufficiently
to make the enumeration. Sometimes I counted ten, sometimes
twelve, and although I knew that eleven, since Jynxtrop was dead,
was the correct number, I could never bring my reckoning right.
Of one thing I felt quite sure, and that was that the number
would very soon be ten. I was convinced that I could myself last
but very little longer. All the events and associations of my
life passed rapidly through my brain, My country, my friends, and
my family all appeared as it were in a vision, and seemed as
though they had come to bid me a last farewell.
Towards morning I woke from my sleep, if the languid stupour into
which I had fallen was worthy of that name. One fixed idea had
taken possession of my brain; I would put an end to myself, and I
felt a sort of pleasure as I gloated over the power that I had to
terminate my sufferings.
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