Frankenstein

lifelessness.

I mentioned in my last letter the fears I entertained of a mutiny. This
morning, as I sat watching the wan countenance of my friend--his eyes
half closed, and his limbs hanging listlessly,--I was roused by half a
dozen of the sailors, who demanded admission into the cabin. They
entered, and their leader addressed me. He told me that he and his
companions had been chosen by the other sailors to come in deputation to
me, to make me a requisition, which, in justice, I could not refuse. We
were immured in ice, and should probably never escape; but they feared
that if, as was possible, the ice should dissipate, and a free passage
be opened, I should be rash enough to continue my voyage, and lead them
into fresh dangers, after they might happily have surmounted this. They
insisted, therefore, that I should engage with a solemn promise, that if
the vessel should be freed I would instantly direct my course southward.

This speech troubled me. I had not despaired; nor had I yet conceived
the idea of returning, if set free. Yet could I, in justice, or even in
possibility, refuse this demand? I hesitated before I answered; when
Frankenstein, who had at first been silent, and, indeed, appeared hardly