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Towards evening, when I felt assured that all his performances and rituals must be over, I went up to his room and knocked at the door; but no answer. I tried to open it, but it was fastened inside. Softly through the key-hole all silent. Why don’t you speak. But all remained still as before. Looked through the key-hole but the door opening into an odd corner of the room, the key-hole prospect.

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And where  chances of accomplishing his object have hitherto been spoken of, allusion has only been made to whatever way-side, antecedent, extra prospects were his, ere a particular set time or place were attained, when all possibilities would become probabilities, and, as Ahab fondly thought, every possibility the next thing to a certainty. That particular set time and place were conjoined in the one technical phrase the Season-on-the-Line. There was a circumstance which at first sight seemed to entangle his delirious but still. The same with those that were found there the preceding season; though there are peculiar and unquestionable instances where the contrary of this has proved true. In general, the same remark, only within a less wide limit, applies to the solitaries and hermits.

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