I feel that I should add a few words to this manuscript given me by “Nemo.”

This queer old man has been writing for me these memories of his youth. But the Institution officials, with pardonable skepticism, declare to me privately that he is unbalanced—a victim of amnesia since that day he was found wandering on the streets of an American city, with no memory of who he was or where he came from. They tell me he was, in his youth, probably some obscure European astronomer—which would account for his scientific knowledge. Scandinavian perhaps, they now say. His accent is curious, I can hear for myself. But I would not call it Scandinavian; indeed I have heard nothing like it anywhere.

It was not so many weeks ago—dating from the time you read this—when I interviewed the old man, in the neat little reception room of the Institution. I read over this manuscript which he handed me, while he sat staring with eyes that seemed to see far beyond the narrow walls enclosing us.

“But Nemo,” I protested, “this is not finished. Is this the last you’re going to give me?”

“The last,” he said vaguely. “I cannot remember any more. It is getting blurred—fading.” He passed a palsied hand across his blue-veined forehead. “Getting blurred—for I am an old man and my faculties are going—very fast.”

“But Og,” I suggested. “What became of Og?”

He brightened. “Did I not tell you that? I remember now. I met him—near the end of the battle. He had captured one of our dolphins, and a lance. He came at me—and I fought him—I was mounted as he was. . . .”

The tired old voice trailed away.

“Yes?” I prompted.

He started. “What was I saying? Oh yes, about Og. You asked me about Og, didn’t you? We might have been knights of the Court of King Arthur—jousting with our lances. I can remember it now—clearly. I would have run him through almost at the first tilt, but that girl threw herself between us. I did not like to kill her. That was bad. Accident—I could not help it.”

“You mean Maaret?”

“Maaret? Yes, that was her name, wasn’t it? I remember now. She died in Nona’s arms—after I had killed Og. The girl did not know I had killed him. She died—still loving Og, and glad that she had given her life for him. . . I remember that now.”

“But Nona and your boy? What of them? And you, Nemo—who are you?”

“I—I don’t know. I remember that at the last, I was with Nona and boy. The war was over. I was sick. Yes, that was it—very, very sick. They had me in bed. Nona was bending over me. I can see her now—so beautiful. It was getting dark, but Nona said——”

He stopped short.

“Nona said——” I prompted gently.

“Yes, I recall it now. Nona said I must fight the darkness that was creeping upon me. But I couldn’t. It came—darkness and silence. Slowly. But everything was growing black. And Nona’s voice imploring me not to go, grew dimmer—far away—dimmer and darker—everything dark, and then—I was gone.”

“Dead?” I said softly. What did he mean? What could it all mean, except what the rational officials of the Institution said?

He shook himself slightly. “Did I say dead? I don’t know whether I mean that or not. I don’t know what I mean. Blackness—nothingness—and then I found myself on one of your horrible crowded streets here on Earth. An old man—cheated out of all those years of life—grown old and feeble, when last I had been young and strong. And my Nona and boy gone——”

He was trembling now; and suddenly he turned on me.

“Go away, please. It—it hurts me to think these thoughts. My Nona gone——”

If any of you care to advance your theories, I shall be glad to hear from you.