September 5th.

We are still surrounded by mountains of ice, still in imminent danger of being crushed in their conflict. The cold is excessive, and many of my unfortunate comrades have already found a grave amidst this scene of desolation. Frankenstein has daily declined in health: a feverish fire still glimmers in his eyes; but he is exhausted, and, when suddenly roused to any exertion, he speedily sinks again into apparent 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 [desired] <demanded> admission into the cabin. They [entered; and] <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 [demand] <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 [desired] <insisted>, therefore, that I should engage with a solemn promise, that if the vessel should be [freed, I] <freed I> would instantly direct my course southward.