The ship's
course was clearly traced upon the charts in lines of red ink, and,
following it, I could see that the Pilgrim (sailing, I suppose,
from Bristol or some other English port) had rounded Cape Wrath and
gone in at Kirkwall, in the Orkneys; thence the course was
continued in a regular zigzag northward to a port on the north of
Iceland, and then due east, as though she had been making for
Scandinavia. But here the line became broken and irregular, and
swept round suddenly to the far northwest, as though the vessel had
been carried away by some adverse current or contrary wind away
into the Arctic seas.
Here, then, I had a rough sort of explanation of the Pilgrim's
voyage.
I was leaving the captain's room, taking the charts with me, when,
on giving a last look round, I noticed a sleeping berth curtained
off by a plaid shawl. I drew the curtain aside, and saw something
sparkling. It was a beautiful diamond ring that encircled one of
the fingers of a man's thin white hand. The hand was clasped over
some small object that I did not see. Turning down a heavy fur rug
that covered the man's dead body I noticed that his clothing, his
appearance generally, were not those of a seaman. He had a long,
silky, brown beard, and a very handsome face, which, however, was
marred by an ugly scar on the brow.
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