I looked at him, the man who had been hurled down from the topmost pitch of life to be buried alive and be worse than dead.

There seemed a relaxation of his expressionless face which was new.

Maud looked at me and I understood.
"His life flickered out in the storm," I said.
"But he still lives," she answered, infinite faith in her voice.
"He had too great strength." "Yes," she said, "but now it no longer shackles him.

He is a free spirit." "He is a free spirit surely," I answered; and, taking her hand, I led her on deck.
The storm broke that night, which is to say that it diminished as slowly as it had arisen.

After breakfast next morning, when I had hoisted Wolf Larsen's body on deck ready for burial, it was still blowing heavily and a large sea was running.