Off on a Comet! a Journey through Planetary Space

OFF ON A COMET or HECTOR SERVADAC

WORKS of JULES VERNE

Edited By Charles F. Horne, Ph.D.

Professor of English, College of the City of New York; Author of “The

Technique of the Novel,” etc.

[colophon omitted]

F. Tyler Daniels Company, Inc.

New York :::: London

Copyright, 1911 By Vincent Parke And Company

INTRODUCTION TO VOLUME NINE

_Among so many effective and artistic tales, it is difficult to give a

preference to one over all the rest. Yet, certainly, even amid Verne’s

remarkable works, his “Off on a Comet” must be given high rank. Perhaps

this story will be remembered when even “Round the World in Eighty Days”

and “Michael Strogoff” have been obliterated by centuries of time. At

least, of the many books since written upon the same theme as Verne’s,

no one has yet succeeded in equaling or even approaching it.

In one way “Off on a Comet” shows a marked contrast to Verne’s earlier

books. Not only does it invade a region more remote than even the

“Trip to the Moon,” but the author here abandons his usual scrupulously

scientific attitude. In order that he may escort us through the depths

of immeasurable space, show us what astronomy really knows of conditions

there and upon the other planets, Verne asks us to accept a situation

frankly impossible. The earth and a comet are brought twice into

collision without mankind in general, or even our astronomers, becoming

conscious of the fact. Moreover several people from widely scattered

places are carried off by the comet and returned uninjured. Yet further,

the comet snatches for the convenience of its travelers, both air and

water. Little, useful tracts of earth are picked up and, as it were,

turned over and clapped down right side up again upon the comet’s

surface. Even ships pass uninjured through this remarkable somersault.

These events all belong frankly to the realm of fairyland.

If the situation were reproduced in actuality, if ever a comet should

come into collision with the earth, we can conceive two scientifically

possible results. If the comet were of such attenuation, such almost

infinitesimal mass as some of these celestial wanderers seem to be, we

can imagine our earth self-protective and possibly unharmed. If, on the

other hand, the comet had even a hundredth part of the size and solidity

and weight which Verne confers upon his monster so as to give his

travelers a home--in that case the collision would be unspeakably

disastrous--especially to the unlucky individuals who occupied the exact

point of contact.

But once granted the initial and the closing extravagance, the departure

and return of his characters, the alpha and omega of his tale, how

closely the author clings to facts between! How closely he follows, and

imparts to his readers, the scientific probabilities of the universe

beyond our earth, the actual knowledge so hard won by our astronomers!

Other authors who, since Verne, have told of trips through the planetary

and stellar universe have given free rein to fancy, to dreams of what

might be found. Verne has endeavored to impart only what is known to

exist.

In the same year with “Off on a Comet,” 1877, was published also

the tale variously named and translated as “The Black Indies,” “The

Underground City,” and “The Child of the Cavern.” This story, like

“Round the World in Eighty Days” was first issued in “feuilleton” by the

noted Paris newspaper “Le Temps.” Its success did not equal that of its

predecessor in this style. Some critics indeed have pointed to this work

as marking the beginning of a decline in the author’s power of awaking

interest. Many of his best works were, however, still to follow. And, as

regards imagination and the elements of mystery and awe, surely in the

“Underground City” with its cavern world, its secret, undiscoverable,

unrelenting foe, the “Harfang,” bird of evil omen, and the “fire

maidens” of the ruined castle, surely with all these “imagination” is

anything but lacking.

From the realistic side, the work is painstaking and exact as all the

author’s works. The sketches of mines and miners, their courage and

their dangers, their lives and their hopes, are carefully studied. So

also is the emotional aspect of the deeps under ground, the blackness,

the endless wandering passages, the silence, and the awe._

OFF ON A COMET OR HECTOR SERVADAC

BOOK I.

CHAPTER I. A CHALLENGE

“Nothing, sir, can induce me to surrender my claim.”

“I am sorry, count, but in such a matter your views cannot modify mine.”

“But allow me to point out that my seniority unquestionably gives me a

prior right.”

“Mere seniority, I assert, in an affair of this kind, cannot possibly

entitle you to any prior claim whatever.”

“Then, captain, no alternative is left but for me to compel you to yield

at the sword’s point.”

“As you please, count; but neither sword nor pistol can force me to

forego my pretensions. Here is my card.”

“And mine.”

This rapid altercation was thus brought to an end by the formal

interchange of the names of the disputants. On one of the cards was

inscribed:

_Captain Hector Servadac,

Staff Officer, Mostaganem._

On the other was the title:

_Count Wassili Timascheff,

On board the Schooner “Dobryna.”_

It did not take long to arrange that seconds should be appointed, who

would meet in Mostaganem at two o’clock that day; and the captain and

the count were on the point of parting from each other, with a salute of

punctilious courtesy, when Timascheff, as if struck by a sudden thought,

said abruptly: “Perhaps it would be better, captain, not to allow the

real cause of this to transpire?”

“Far better,” replied Servadac; “it is undesirable in every way for any

names to be mentioned.”

“In that case, however,” continued the count, “it will be necessary to

assign an ostensible pretext of some kind. Shall we allege a musical

dispute? a contention in which I feel bound to defend Wagner, while you

are the zealous champion of Rossini?”

“I am quite content,” answered Servadac, with a smile; and with another

low bow they parted.

The scene, as here depicted, took place upon the extremity of a little

cape on the Algerian coast, between Mostaganem and Tenes, about two

miles from the mouth of the Shelif. The headland rose more than sixty

feet above the sea-level, and the azure waters of the Mediterranean, as

they softly kissed the strand, were tinged with the reddish hue of the

ferriferous rocks that formed its base. It was the 31st of December. The

noontide sun, which usually illuminated the various projections of the

coast with a dazzling brightness, was hidden by a dense mass of cloud,

and the fog, which for some unaccountable cause, had hung for the

last two months over nearly every region in the world, causing serious

interruption to traffic between continent and continent, spread its

dreary veil across land and sea.

After taking leave of the staff-officer, Count Wassili Timascheff wended

his way down to a small creek, and took his seat in the stern of a light

four-oar that had been awaiting his return; this was immediately pushed

off from shore, and was soon alongside a pleasure-yacht, that was lying

to, not many cable lengths away.

At a sign from Servadac, an orderly, who had been standing at a

respectful distance, led forward a magnificent Arabian horse; the

captain vaulted into the saddle, and followed by his attendant, well

mounted as himself, started off towards Mostaganem. It was half-past

twelve when the two riders crossed the bridge that had been recently

erected over the Shelif, and a quarter of an hour later their steeds,

flecked with foam, dashed through the Mascara Gate, which was one of

five entrances opened in the embattled wall that encircled the town.

At that date, Mostaganem contained about fifteen thousand inhabitants,

three thousand of whom were French. Besides being one of the principal

district towns of the province of Oran, it was also a military station.

Mostaganem rejoiced in a well-sheltered harbor, which enabled her to

utilize all the rich products of the Mina and the Lower Shelif. It was

the existence of so good a harbor amidst the exposed cliffs of this

coast that had induced the owner of the _Dobryna_ to winter in these

parts, and for two months the Russian standard had been seen floating

from her yard, whilst on her mast-head was hoisted the pennant of

the French Yacht Club, with the distinctive letters M. C. W. T., the

initials of Count Timascheff.

Having entered the town, Captain Servadac made his way towards Matmore,

the military quarter, and was not long in finding two friends on whom

he might rely--a major of the 2nd Fusileers, and a captain of the

8th Artillery. The two officers listened gravely enough to Servadac’s

request that they would act as his seconds in an affair of honor, but

could not resist a smile on hearing that the dispute between him and the

count had originated in a musical discussion. Surely, they suggested,

the matter might be easily arranged; a few slight concessions on either

side, and all might be amicably adjusted. But no representations on

their part were of any avail. Hector Servadac was inflexible.

“No concession is possible,” he replied, resolutely. “Rossini has been

deeply injured, and I cannot suffer the injury to be unavenged. Wagner

is a fool. I shall keep my word. I am quite firm.”

“Be it so, then,” replied one of the officers; “and after all, you know,

a sword-cut need not be a very serious affair.”

“Certainly not,” rejoined Servadac; “and especially in my case, when I

have not the slightest intention of being wounded at all.”

Incredulous as they naturally were as to the assigned cause of the

quarrel, Servadac’s friends had no alternative but to accept his

explanation, and without farther parley they started for the staff

office, where, at two o’clock precisely, they were to meet the seconds

of Count Timascheff. Two hours later they had returned. All the

preliminaries had been arranged; the count, who like many Russians

abroad was an aide-de-camp of the Czar, had of course proposed swords

as the most appropriate weapons, and the duel was to take place on the

following morning, the first of January, at nine o’clock, upon the cliff

at a spot about a mile and a half from the mouth of the Shelif. With

the assurance that they would not fail to keep their appointment with

military punctuality, the two officers cordially wrung their friend’s

hand and retired to the Zulma Cafe for a game at piquet. Captain

Servadac at once retraced his steps and left the town.

For the last fortnight Servadac had not been occupying his proper

lodgings in the military quarters; having been appointed to make a local

levy, he had been living in a gourbi, or native hut, on the Mostaganem

coast, between four and five miles from the Shelif. His orderly was his

sole companion, and by any other man than the captain the enforced exile

would have been esteemed little short of a severe penance.

On his way to the gourbi, his mental occupation was a very laborious

effort to put together what he was pleased to call a rondo, upon a model

of versification all but obsolete. This rondo, it is unnecessary to

conceal, was to be an ode addressed to a young widow by whom he had been

captivated, and whom he was anxious to marry, and the tenor of his muse

was intended to prove that when once a man has found an object in

all respects worthy of his affections, he should love her “in all

simplicity.” Whether the aphorism were universally true was not very

material to the gallant captain, whose sole ambition at present was to

construct a roundelay of which this should be the prevailing sentiment.

He indulged the fancy that he might succeed in producing a composition

which would have a fine effect here in Algeria, where poetry in that

form was all but unknown.

“I know well enough,” he said repeatedly to himself, “what I want to

say. I want to tell her that I love her sincerely, and wish to marry

her; but, confound it! the words won’t rhyme. Plague on it! Does nothing

rhyme with ‘simplicity’? Ah! I have it now:

‘Lovers should, whoe’er they be,

Love in all simplicity.’

But what next? how am I to go on? I say, Ben Zoof,” he called aloud to

his orderly, who was trotting silently close in his rear, “did you ever

compose any poetry?”

“No, captain,” answered the man promptly: “I have never made any verses,

but I have seen them made fast enough at a booth during the fete of

Montmartre.”

“Can you remember them?”

“Remember them! to be sure I can. This is the way they began:

‘Come in! come in! you’ll not repent

The entrance money you have spent;

The wondrous mirror in this place

Reveals your future sweetheart’s face.’”

“Bosh!” cried Servadac in disgust; “your verses are detestable trash.”

“As good as any others, captain, squeaked through a reed pipe.”

“Hold your tongue, man,” said Servadac peremptorily; “I have made

another couplet.

‘Lovers should, whoe’er they be,

Love in all simplicity;

Lover, loving honestly,

Offer I myself to thee.’”

Beyond this, however, the captain’s poetical genius was impotent to

carry him; his farther efforts were unavailing, and when at six o’clock

he reached the gourbi, the four lines still remained the limit of his

composition.

CHAPTER II. CAPTAIN SERVADAC AND HIS ORDERLY

At the time of which I write, there might be seen in the registers of

the Minister of War the following entry:

SERVADAC (_Hector_), born at St. Trelody in the district of Lesparre,

department of the Gironde, July 19th, 18--.

_Property:_ 1200 francs in rentes.

_Length of service:_ Fourteen years, three months, and five days.

_Service:_ Two years at school at St. Cyr; two years at L’Ecole

d’Application; two years in the 8th Regiment of the Line; two years in

the 3rd Light Cavalry; seven years in Algeria.

_Campaigns:_ Soudan and Japan.

_Rank:_ Captain on the staff at Mostaganem.

_Decorations:_ Chevalier of the Legion of Honor, March 13th, 18--.

Hector Servadac was thirty years of age, an orphan without lineage and

almost without means. Thirsting for glory rather than for gold, slightly

scatter-brained, but warm-hearted, generous, and brave, he was eminently

formed to be the protege of the god of battles.

For the first year and a half of his existence he had been the

foster-child of the sturdy wife of a vine-dresser of Medoc--a lineal

descendant of the heroes of ancient prowess; in a word, he was one of

those individuals whom nature seems to have predestined for remarkable

things, and around whose cradle have hovered the fairy godmothers of

adventure and good luck.

In appearance Hector Servadac was quite the type of an officer; he was

rather more than five feet six inches high, slim and graceful, with dark

curling hair and mustaches, well-formed hands and feet, and a clear blue

eye. He seemed born to please without being conscious of the power he

possessed. It must be owned, and no one was more ready to confess it

than himself, that his literary attainments were by no means of a high

order. “We don’t spin tops” is a favorite saying amongst artillery

officers, indicating that they do not shirk their duty by frivolous

pursuits; but it must be confessed that Servadac, being naturally idle,

was very much given to “spinning tops.” His good abilities, however,

and his ready intelligence had carried him successfully through the

curriculum of his early career. He was a good draughtsman, an excellent

rider--having thoroughly mastered the successor to the famous “Uncle

Tom” at the riding-school of St. Cyr--and in the records of his military

service his name had several times been included in the order of the

day.

The following episode may suffice, in a certain degree, to illustrate

his character. Once, in action, he was leading a detachment of infantry

through an intrenchment. They came to a place where the side-work of the

trench had been so riddled by shell that a portion of it had actually

fallen in, leaving an aperture quite unsheltered from the grape-shot

that was pouring in thick and fast. The men hesitated. In an instant

Servadac mounted the side-work, laid himself down in the gap, and thus

filling up the breach by his own body, shouted, “March on!”

And through a storm of shot, not one of which touched the prostrate

officer, the troop passed in safety.

Since leaving the military college, Servadac, with the exception of

his two campaigns in the Soudan and Japan, had been always stationed in

Algeria. He had now a staff appointment at Mostaganem, and had lately

been entrusted with some topographical work on the coast between Tenes

and the Shelif. It was a matter of little consequence to him that the

gourbi, in which of necessity he was quartered, was uncomfortable and

ill-contrived; he loved the open air, and the independence of his life

suited him well. Sometimes he would wander on foot upon the sandy shore,

and sometimes he would enjoy a ride along the summit of the cliff;

altogether being in no hurry at all to bring his task to an end. His

occupation, moreover, was not so engrossing but that he could find

leisure for taking a short railway journey once or twice a week; so

that he was ever and again putting in an appearance at the general’s

receptions at Oran, and at the fetes given by the governor at Algiers.

It was on one of these occasions that he had first met Madame de L----,

the lady to whom he was desirous of dedicating the rondo, the first four

lines of which had just seen the light. She was a colonel’s widow,

young and handsome, very reserved, not to say haughty in her manner, and

either indifferent or impervious to the admiration which she inspired.

Captain Servadac had not yet ventured to declare his attachment; of

rivals he was well aware he had not a few, and amongst these not the

least formidable was the Russian Count Timascheff. And although the

young widow was all unconscious of the share she had in the matter, it

was she, and she alone, who was the cause of the challenge just given

and accepted by her two ardent admirers.

During his residence in the gourbi, Hector Servadac’s sole companion

was his orderly, Ben Zoof. Ben Zoof was devoted, body and soul, to his

superior officer. His own personal ambition was so entirely absorbed in

his master’s welfare, that it is certain no offer of promotion--even had

it been that of aide-de-camp to the Governor-General of Algiers--would

have induced him to quit that master’s service. His name might seem

to imply that he was a native of Algeria; but such was by no means the

case. His true name was Laurent; he was a native of Montmartre in Paris,

and how or why he had obtained his patronymic was one of those anomalies

which the most sagacious of etymologists would find it hard to explain.

Born on the hill of Montmartre, between the Solferino tower and the

mill of La Galette, Ben Zoof had ever possessed the most unreserved

admiration for his birthplace; and to his eyes the heights and district

of Montmartre represented an epitome of all the wonders of the world.

In all his travels, and these had been not a few, he had never

beheld scenery which could compete with that of his native home.

No cathedral--not even Burgos itself--could vie with the church at

Montmartre. Its race-course could well hold its own against that at

Pentelique; its reservoir would throw the Mediterranean into the shade;

its forests had flourished long before the invasion of the Celts; and

its very mill produced no ordinary flour, but provided material

for cakes of world-wide renown. To crown all, Montmartre boasted a

mountain--a veritable mountain; envious tongues indeed might pronounce

it little more than a hill; but Ben Zoof would have allowed himself

to be hewn in pieces rather than admit that it was anything less than

fifteen thousand feet in height.

Ben Zoof’s most ambitious desire was to induce the captain to go with

him and end his days in his much-loved home, and so incessantly were

Servadac’s ears besieged with descriptions of the unparalleled beauties

and advantages of this eighteenth arrondissement of Paris, that he

could scarcely hear the name of Montmartre without a conscious thrill

of aversion. Ben Zoof, however, did not despair of ultimately converting

the captain, and meanwhile had resolved never to leave him. When a

private in the 8th Cavalry, he had been on the point of quitting

the army at twenty-eight years of age, but unexpectedly he had been

appointed orderly to Captain Servadac. Side by side they fought in two

campaigns. Servadac had saved Ben Zoof’s life in Japan; Ben Zoof had

rendered his master a like service in the Soudan. The bond of union thus

effected could never be severed; and although Ben Zoof’s achievements

had fairly earned him the right of retirement, he firmly declined all

honors or any pension that might part him from his superior officer. Two

stout arms, an iron constitution, a powerful frame, and an indomitable

courage were all loyally devoted to his master’s service, and fairly

entitled him to his _soi-disant_ designation of “The Rampart of

Montmartre.” Unlike his master, he made no pretension to any gift

of poetic power, but his inexhaustible memory made him a living

encyclopaedia; and for his stock of anecdotes and trooper’s tales he was

matchless.

Thoroughly appreciating his servant’s good qualities, Captain Servadac

endured with imperturbable good humor those idiosyncrasies, which in

a less faithful follower would have been intolerable, and from time

to time he would drop a word of sympathy that served to deepen his

subordinate’s devotion.

On one occasion, when Ben Zoof had mounted his hobby-horse, and

was indulging in high-flown praises about his beloved eighteenth

arrondissement, the captain had remarked gravely, “Do you know, Ben

Zoof, that Montmartre only requires a matter of some thirteen thousand

feet to make it as high as Mont Blanc?”

Ben Zoof’s eyes glistened with delight; and from that moment Hector

Servadac and Montmartre held equal places in his affection.

CHAPTER III. INTERRUPTED EFFUSIONS

Composed of mud and loose stones, and covered with a thatch of turf and

straw, known to the natives by the name of “driss,” the gourbi, though a

grade better than the tents of the nomad Arabs, was yet far inferior

to any habitation built of brick or stone. It adjoined an old stone

hostelry, previously occupied by a detachment of engineers, and which

now afforded shelter for Ben Zoof and the two horses. It still

contained a considerable number of tools, such as mattocks, shovels, and

pick-axes.

Uncomfortable as was their temporary abode, Servadac and his attendant

made no complaints; neither of them was dainty in the matter either of

board or lodging. After dinner, leaving his orderly to stow away the

remains of the repast in what he was pleased to term the “cupboard of

his stomach.” Captain Servadac turned out into the open air to smoke his

pipe upon the edge of the cliff. The shades of night were drawing on.

An hour previously, veiled in heavy clouds, the sun had sunk below the

horizon that bounded the plain beyond the Shelif.

The sky presented a most singular appearance. Towards the north,

although the darkness rendered it impossible to see beyond a quarter

of a mile, the upper strata of the atmosphere were suffused with a

rosy glare. No well-defined fringe of light, nor arch of luminous rays,

betokened a display of aurora borealis, even had such a phenomenon been

possible in these latitudes; and the most experienced meteorologist

would have been puzzled to explain the cause of this striking

illumination on this 31st of December, the last evening of the passing

year.

But Captain Servadac was no meteorologist, and it is to be doubted

whether, since leaving school, he had ever opened his “Course of

Cosmography.” Besides, he had other thoughts to occupy his mind. The

prospects of the morrow offered serious matter for consideration. The

captain was actuated by no personal animosity against the count; though

rivals, the two men regarded each other with sincere respect; they had

simply reached a crisis in which one of them was _de trop;_ which of

them, fate must decide.

At eight o’clock, Captain Servadac re-entered the gourbi, the single

apartment of which contained his bed, a small writing-table, and some

trunks that served instead of cupboards. The orderly performed his

culinary operations in the adjoining building, which he also used as a

bed-room, and where, extended on what he called his “good oak mattress,”

he would sleep soundly as a dormouse for twelve hours at a stretch. Ben

Zoof had not yet received his orders to retire, and ensconcing himself

in a corner of the gourbi, he endeavored to doze--a task which the

unusual agitation of his master rendered somewhat difficult. Captain

Servadac was evidently in no hurry to betake himself to rest, but

seating himself at his table, with a pair of compasses and a sheet of

tracing-paper, he began to draw, with red and blue crayons, a variety

of colored lines, which could hardly be supposed to have much connection

with a topographical survey. In truth, his character of staff-officer

was now entirely absorbed in that of Gascon poet. Whether he imagined

that the compasses would bestow upon his verses the measure of a

mathematical accuracy, or whether he fancied that the parti-colored

lines would lend variety to his rhythm, it is impossible to determine;

be that as it may, he was devoting all his energies to the compilation

of his rondo, and supremely difficult he found the task.

“Hang it!” he ejaculated, “whatever induced me to choose this meter? It

is as hard to find rhymes as to rally fugitive in a battle. But, by all

the powers! it shan’t be said that a French officer cannot cope with a

piece of poetry. One battalion has fought--now for the rest!”

Perseverance had its reward. Presently two lines, one red, the other

blue, appeared upon the paper, and the captain murmured:

“Words, mere words, cannot avail,

Telling true heart’s tender tale.”

“What on earth ails my master?” muttered Ben Zoof; “for the last hour he

has been as fidgety as a bird returning after its winter migration.”

Servadac suddenly started from his seat, and as he paced the room with

all the frenzy of poetic inspiration, read out:

“Empty words cannot convey

All a lover’s heart would say.”

“Well, to be sure, he is at his everlasting verses again!” said Ben Zoof

to himself, as he roused himself in his corner. “Impossible to sleep in

such a noise;” and he gave vent to a loud groan.

“How now, Ben Zoof?” said the captain sharply. “What ails you?”

“Nothing, sir, only the nightmare.”

“Curse the fellow, he has quite interrupted me!” ejaculated the captain.

“Ben Zoof!” he called aloud.

“Here, sir!” was the prompt reply; and in an instant the orderly

was upon his feet, standing in a military attitude, one hand to his

forehead, the other closely pressed to his trouser-seam.

“Stay where you are! don’t move an inch!” shouted Servadac; “I have

just thought of the end of my rondo.” And in a voice of inspiration,

accompanying his words with dramatic gestures, Servadac began to

declaim:

“Listen, lady, to my vows--

O, consent to be my spouse;

Constant ever I will be,

Constant....”

No closing lines were uttered. All at once, with unutterable violence,

the captain and his orderly were dashed, face downwards, to the ground.

CHAPTER IV. A CONVULSION OF NATURE

Whence came it that at that very moment the horizon underwent so strange

and sudden a modification, that the eye of the most practiced mariner

could not distinguish between sea and sky?

Whence came it that the billows raged and rose to a height hitherto

unregistered in the records of science?

Whence came it that the elements united in one deafening crash; that the

earth groaned as though the whole framework of the globe were ruptured;

that the waters roared from their innermost depths; that the air

shrieked with all the fury of a cyclone?

Whence came it that a radiance, intenser than the effulgence of the

Northern Lights, overspread the firmament, and momentarily dimmed the

splendor of the brightest stars?

Whence came it that the Mediterranean, one instant emptied of its

waters, was the next flooded with a foaming surge?

Whence came it that in the space of a few seconds the moon’s disc

reached a magnitude as though it were but a tenth part of its ordinary

distance from the earth?

Whence came it that a new blazing spheroid, hitherto unknown to

astronomy, now appeared suddenly in the firmament, though it were but to

lose itself immediately behind masses of accumulated cloud?

What phenomenon was this that had produced a cataclysm so tremendous in

effect upon earth, sky, and sea?

Was it possible that a single human being could have survived the

convulsion? and if so, could he explain its mystery?

CHAPTER V. A MYSTERIOUS SEA

Violent as the commotion had been, that portion of the Algerian coast

which is bounded on the north by the Mediterranean, and on the west by

the right bank of the Shelif, appeared to have suffered little change.

It is true that indentations were perceptible in the fertile plain,

and the surface of the sea was ruffled with an agitation that was quite

unusual; but the rugged outline of the cliff was the same as heretofore,

and the aspect of the entire scene appeared unaltered. The stone

hostelry, with the exception of some deep clefts in its walls, had

sustained little injury; but the gourbi, like a house of cards destroyed

by an infant’s breath, had completely subsided, and its two inmates lay

motionless, buried under the sunken thatch.

It was two hours after the catastrophe that Captain Servadac regained

consciousness; he had some trouble to collect his thoughts, and the

first sounds that escaped his lips were the concluding words of the

rondo which had been so ruthlessly interrupted;

“Constant ever I will be,

Constant....”

His next thought was to wonder what had happened; and in order to find

an answer, he pushed aside the broken thatch, so that his head appeared

above the _debris_. “The gourbi leveled to the ground!” he exclaimed,

“surely a waterspout has passed along the coast.”

He felt all over his body to perceive what injuries he had sustained,

but not a sprain nor a scratch could he discover. “Where are you, Ben

Zoof?” he shouted.

“Here, sir!” and with military promptitude a second head protruded from

the rubbish.

“Have you any notion what has happened, Ben Zoof?”

“I’ve a notion, captain, that it’s all up with us.”

“Nonsense, Ben Zoof; it is nothing but a waterspout!”

“Very good, sir,” was the philosophical reply, immediately followed by

the query, “Any bones broken, sir?”

“None whatever,” said the captain.

Both men were soon on their feet, and began to make a vigorous clearance

of the ruins, beneath which they found that their arms, cooking

utensils, and other property, had sustained little injury.

“By-the-by, what o’clock is it?” asked the captain.

“It must be eight o’clock, at least,” said Ben Zoof, looking at the sun,

which was a considerable height above the horizon. “It is almost time

for us to start.”

“To start! what for?”

“To keep your appointment with Count Timascheff.”

“By Jove! I had forgotten all about it!” exclaimed Servadac. Then

looking at his watch, he cried, “What are you thinking of, Ben Zoof? It

is scarcely two o’clock.”

“Two in the morning, or two in the afternoon?” asked Ben Zoof, again

regarding the sun.

Servadac raised his watch to his ear. “It is going,” said he; “but, by

all the wines of Medoc, I am puzzled. Don’t you see the sun is in the

west? It must be near setting.”

“Setting, captain! Why, it is rising finely, like a conscript at the

sound of the reveille. It is considerably higher since we have been

talking.”

Incredible as it might appear, the fact was undeniable that the sun was

rising over the Shelif from that quarter of the horizon behind which

it usually sank for the latter portion of its daily round. They were

utterly bewildered. Some mysterious phenomenon must not only have

altered the position of the sun in the sidereal system, but must even

have brought about an important modification of the earth’s rotation on

her axis.

Captain Servadac consoled himself with the prospect of reading an

explanation of the mystery in next week’s newspapers, and turned his

attention to what was to him of more immediate importance. “Come, let

us be off,” said he to his orderly; “though heaven and earth be

topsy-turvy, I must be at my post this morning.”

“To do Count Timascheff the honor of running him through the body,”

added Ben Zoof.

If Servadac and his orderly had been less preoccupied, they would have

noticed that a variety of other physical changes besides the apparent

alteration in the movement of the sun had been evolved during the

atmospheric disturbances of that New Year’s night. As they descended

the steep footpath leading from the cliff towards the Shelif, they were

unconscious that their respiration became forced and rapid, like that of

a mountaineer when he has reached an altitude where the air has become

less charged with oxygen. They were also unconscious that their voices

were thin and feeble; either they must themselves have become rather

deaf, or it was evident that the air had become less capable of

transmitting sound.

The weather, which on the previous evening had been very foggy, had

entirely changed. The sky had assumed a singular tint, and was soon

covered with lowering clouds that completely hid the sun. There were,

indeed, all the signs of a coming storm, but the vapor, on account of

the insufficient condensation, failed to fall.

The sea appeared quite deserted, a most unusual circumstance along this

coast, and not a sail nor a trail of smoke broke the gray monotony

of water and sky. The limits of the horizon, too, had become much

circumscribed. On land, as well as on sea, the remote distance had

completely disappeared, and it seemed as though the globe had assumed a

more decided convexity.

At the pace at which they were walking, it was very evident that the

captain and his attendant would not take long to accomplish the three

miles that lay between the gourbi and the place of rendezvous. They

did not exchange a word, but each was conscious of an unusual buoyancy,

which appeared to lift up their bodies and give as it were, wings to

their feet. If Ben Zoof had expressed his sensations in words, he would

have said that he felt “up to anything,” and he had even forgotten to

taste so much as a crust of bread, a lapse of memory of which the worthy

soldier was rarely guilty.

As these thoughts were crossing his mind, a harsh bark was heard to the

left of the footpath, and a jackal was seen emerging from a large grove

of lentisks. Regarding the two wayfarers with manifest uneasiness, the

beast took up its position at the foot of a rock, more than thirty feet

in height. It belonged to an African species distinguished by a

black spotted skin, and a black line down the front of the legs. At

night-time, when they scour the country in herds, the creatures are

somewhat formidable, but singly they are no more dangerous than a dog.

Though by no means afraid of them, Ben Zoof had a particular aversion

to jackals, perhaps because they had no place among the fauna of his

beloved Montmartre. He accordingly began to make threatening gestures,

when, to the unmitigated astonishment of himself and the captain, the

animal darted forward, and in one single bound gained the summit of the

rock.

“Good Heavens!” cried Ben Zoof, “that leap must have been thirty feet at

least.”

“True enough,” replied the captain; “I never saw such a jump.”

Meantime the jackal had seated itself upon its haunches, and was staring

at the two men with an air of impudent defiance. This was too much for

Ben Zoof’s forbearance, and stooping down he caught up a huge stone,

when to his surprise, he found that it was no heavier than a piece of

petrified sponge. “Confound the brute!” he exclaimed, “I might as well

throw a piece of bread at him. What accounts for its being as light as

this?”

Nothing daunted, however, he hurled the stone into the air. It missed

its aim; but the jackal, deeming it on the whole prudent to decamp,

disappeared across the trees and hedges with a series of bounds, which

could only be likened to those that might be made by an india-rubber

kangaroo. Ben Zoof was sure that his own powers of propelling must equal

those of a howitzer, for his stone, after a lengthened flight through

the air, fell to the ground full five hundred paces the other side of

the rock.

The orderly was now some yards ahead of his master, and had reached

a ditch full of water, and about ten feet wide. With the intention of

clearing it, he made a spring, when a loud cry burst from Servadac. “Ben

Zoof, you idiot! What are you about? You will break your back!”

And well might he be alarmed, for Ben Zoof had sprung to a height of

forty feet into the air. Fearful of the consequences that would attend

the descent of his servant to _terra firma_, Servadac bounded forwards,

to be on the other side of the ditch in time to break his fall. But the

muscular effort that he made carried him in his turn to an altitude of

thirty feet; in his ascent he passed Ben Zoof, who had already commenced

his downward course; and then, obedient to the laws of gravitation, he

descended with increasing rapidity, and alighted upon the earth without

experiencing a shock greater than if he had merely made a bound of four

or five feet high.

Ben Zoof burst into a roar of laughter. “Bravo!” he said, “we should

make a good pair of clowns.”

But the captain was inclined to take a more serious view of the matter.

For a few seconds he stood lost in thought, then said solemnly, “Ben

Zoof, I must be dreaming. Pinch me hard; I must be either asleep or

mad.”

“It is very certain that something has happened to us,” said Ben Zoof.

“I have occasionally dreamed that I was a swallow flying over the

Montmartre, but I never experienced anything of this kind before; it

must be peculiar to the coast of Algeria.”

Servadac was stupefied; he felt instinctively that he was not dreaming,

and yet was powerless to solve the mystery. He was not, however, the man

to puzzle himself for long over any insoluble problem. “Come what may,”

he presently exclaimed, “we will make up our minds for the future to be

surprised at nothing.”

“Right, captain,” replied Ben Zoof; “and, first of all, let us settle

our little score with Count Timascheff.”

Beyond the ditch lay a small piece of meadow land, about an acre in

extent. A soft and delicious herbage carpeted the soil, whilst trees

formed a charming framework to the whole. No spot could have been chosen

more suitable for the meeting between the two adversaries.

Servadac cast a hasty glance round. No one was in sight. “We are the

first on the field,” he said.

“Not so sure of that, sir,” said Ben Zoof.

“What do you mean?” asked Servadac, looking at his watch, which he had

set as nearly as possible by the sun before leaving the gourbi; “it is

not nine o’clock yet.”

“Look up there, sir. I am much mistaken if that is not the sun;” and as

Ben Zoof spoke, he pointed directly overhead to where a faint white disc

was dimly visible through the haze of clouds.

“Nonsense!” exclaimed Servadac. “How can the sun be in the zenith, in

the month of January, in lat. 39 degrees N.?”

“Can’t say, sir. I only know the sun is there; and at the rate he has

been traveling, I would lay my cap to a dish of couscous that in less

than three hours he will have set.”

Hector Servadac, mute and motionless, stood with folded arms. Presently

he roused himself, and began to look about again. “What means all this?”

he murmured. “Laws of gravity disturbed! Points of the compass reversed!

The length of day reduced one half! Surely this will indefinitely

postpone my meeting with the count. Something has happened; Ben Zoof and

I cannot both be mad!”

The orderly, meantime, surveyed his master with the greatest equanimity;

no phenomenon, however extraordinary, would have drawn from him a

single exclamation of surprise. “Do you see anyone, Ben Zoof?” asked the

captain, at last.

“No one, sir; the count has evidently been and gone.” “But supposing

that to be the case,” persisted the captain, “my seconds would have

waited, and not seeing me, would have come on towards the gourbi. I can

only conclude that they have been unable to get here; and as for Count

Timascheff--”

Without finishing his sentence. Captain Servadac, thinking it just

probable that the count, as on the previous evening, might come by

water, walked to the ridge of rock that overhung the shore, in order

to ascertain if the _Dobryna_ were anywhere in sight. But the sea was

deserted, and for the first time the captain noticed that, although

the wind was calm, the waters were unusually agitated, and seethed and

foamed as though they were boiling. It was very certain that the yacht

would have found a difficulty in holding her own in such a swell.

Another thing that now struck Servadac was the extraordinary contraction

of the horizon. Under ordinary circumstances, his elevated position

would have allowed him a radius of vision at least five and twenty miles

in length; but the terrestrial sphere seemed, in the course of the last

few hours, to have become considerably reduced in volume, and he could

now see for a distance of only six miles in every direction.

Meantime, with the agility of a monkey, Ben Zoof had clambered to the

top of a eucalyptus, and from his lofty perch was surveying the

country to the south, as well as towards both Tenes and Mostaganem. On

descending, be informed the captain that the plain was deserted.

“We will make our way to the river, and get over into Mostaganem,” said

the captain.

The Shelif was not more than a mile and a half from the meadow, but

no time was to be lost if the two men were to reach the town before

nightfall. Though still hidden by heavy clouds, the sun was evidently

declining fast; and what was equally inexplicable, it was not following

the oblique curve that in these latitudes and at this time of year might

be expected, but was sinking perpendicularly on to the horizon.

As he went along, Captain Servadac pondered deeply. Perchance some

unheard-of phenomenon had modified the rotary motion of the globe; or

perhaps the Algerian coast had been transported beyond the equator

into the southern hemisphere. Yet the earth, with the exception of the

alteration in its convexity, in this part of Africa at least, seemed to

have undergone no change of any very great importance. As far as the eye

could reach, the shore was, as it had ever been, a succession of

cliffs, beach, and arid rocks, tinged with a red ferruginous hue. To

the south--if south, in this inverted order of things, it might still

be called--the face of the country also appeared unaltered, and some

leagues away, the peaks of the Merdeyah mountains still retained their

accustomed outline.

Presently a rift in the clouds gave passage to an oblique ray of light

that clearly proved that the sun was setting in the east.

“Well, I am curious to know what they think of all this at Mostaganem,”

said the captain. “I wonder, too, what the Minister of War will say when

he receives a telegram informing him that his African colony has become,

not morally, but physically disorganized; that the cardinal points

are at variance with ordinary rules, and that the sun in the month of

January is shining down vertically upon our heads.”

Ben Zoof, whose ideas of discipline were extremely rigid, at once

suggested that the colony should be put under the surveillance of the

police, that the cardinal points should be placed under restraint, and

that the sun should be shot for breach of discipline.

Meantime, they were both advancing with the utmost speed. The

decompression of the atmosphere made the specific gravity of their

bodies extraordinarily light, and they ran like hares and leaped like

chamois. Leaving the devious windings of the footpath, they went as

a crow would fly across the country. Hedges, trees, and streams were

cleared at a bound, and under these conditions Ben Zoof felt that he

could have overstepped Montmartre at a single stride. The earth seemed

as elastic as the springboard of an acrobat; they scarcely touched it

with their feet, and their only fear was lest the height to which they

were propelled would consume the time which they were saving by their

short cut across the fields.

It was not long before their wild career brought them to the right bank

of the Shelif. Here they were compelled to stop, for not only had the

bridge completely disappeared, but the river itself no longer existed.

Of the left bank there was not the slightest trace, and the right bank,

which on the previous evening had bounded the yellow stream, as it

murmured peacefully along the fertile plain, had now become the shore of

a tumultuous ocean, its azure waters extending westwards far as the eye

could reach, and annihilating the tract of country which had hitherto

formed the district of Mostaganem. The shore coincided exactly with what

had been the right bank of the Shelif, and in a slightly curved line

ran north and south, whilst the adjacent groves and meadows all retained

their previous positions. But the river-bank had become the shore of an

unknown sea.

Eager to throw some light upon the mystery, Servadac hurriedly made his

way through the oleander bushes that overhung the shore, took up some

water in the hollow of his hand, and carried it to his lips. “Salt

as brine!” he exclaimed, as soon as he had tasted it. “The sea has

undoubtedly swallowed up all the western part of Algeria.”

“It will not last long, sir,” said Ben Zoof. “It is, probably, only a

severe flood.”

The captain shook his head. “Worse than that, I fear, Ben Zoof,” he

replied with emotion. “It is a catastrophe that may have very

serious consequences. What can have become of all my friends and

fellow-officers?”

Ben Zoof was silent. Rarely had he seen his master so much agitated;

and though himself inclined to receive these phenomena with philosophic

indifference, his notions of military duty caused his countenance to

reflect the captain’s expression of amazement.

But there was little time for Servadac to examine the changes which a

few hours had wrought. The sun had already reached the eastern horizon,

and just as though it were crossing the ecliptic under the tropics,

it sank like a cannon ball into the sea. Without any warning, day gave

place to night, and earth, sea, and sky were immediately wrapped in

profound obscurity.

CHAPTER VI. THE CAPTAIN MAKES AN EXPLORATION

Hector Servadac was not the man to remain long unnerved by any untoward

event. It was part of his character to discover the why and the

wherefore of everything that came under his observation, and he would

have faced a cannon ball the more unflinchingly from understanding the

dynamic force by which it was propelled. Such being his temperament, it

may well be imagined that he was anxious not to remain long in ignorance

of the cause of the phenomena which had been so startling in their

consequences.

“We must inquire into this to-morrow,” he exclaimed, as darkness fell

suddenly upon him. Then, after a pause, he added: “That is to say, if

there is to be a to-morrow; for if I were to be put to the torture, I

could not tell what has become of the sun.”

“May I ask, sir, what we are to do now?” put in Ben Zoof.

“Stay where we are for the present; and when daylight appears--if it

ever does appear--we will explore the coast to the west and south, and

return to the gourbi. If we can find out nothing else, we must at least

discover where we are.”

“Meanwhile, sir, may we go to sleep?”

“Certainly, if you like, and if you can.”

Nothing loath to avail himself of his master’s permission, Ben Zoof

crouched down in an angle of the shore, threw his arms over his eyes,

and very soon slept the sleep of the ignorant, which is often sounder

than the sleep of the just. Overwhelmed by the questions that crowded

upon his brain, Captain Servadac could only wander up and down the

shore. Again and again he asked himself what the catastrophe could

portend. Had the towns of Algiers, Oran, and Mostaganem escaped the

inundation? Could he bring himself to believe that all the inhabitants,

his friends, and comrades had perished; or was it not more probable

that the Mediterranean had merely invaded the region of the mouth of

the Shelif? But this supposition did not in the least explain the other

physical disturbances. Another hypothesis that presented itself to his

mind was that the African coast might have been suddenly transported to

the equatorial zone. But although this might get over the difficulty

of the altered altitude of the sun and the absence of twilight, yet

it would neither account for the sun setting in the east, nor for the

length of the day being reduced to six hours.

“We must wait till to-morrow,” he repeated; adding, for he had become

distrustful of the future, “that is to say, if to-morrow ever comes.”

Although not very learned in astronomy, Servadac was acquainted with

the position of the principal constellations. It was therefore a

considerable disappointment to him that, in consequence of the heavy

clouds, not a star was visible in the firmament. To have ascertained

that the pole-star had become displaced would have been an undeniable

proof that the earth was revolving on a new axis; but not a rift

appeared in the lowering clouds, which seemed to threaten torrents of

rain.

It happened that the moon was new on that very day; naturally,

therefore, it would have set at the same time as the sun. What, then,

was the captain’s bewilderment when, after he had been walking for about

an hour and a half, he noticed on the western horizon a strong glare

that penetrated even the masses of the clouds.

“The moon in the west!” he cried aloud; but suddenly bethinking himself,

he added: “But no, that cannot be the moon; unless she had shifted very

much nearer the earth, she could never give a light as intense as this.”

As he spoke the screen of vapor was illuminated to such a degree that

the whole country was as it were bathed in twilight. “What can this be?”

soliloquized the captain. “It cannot be the sun, for the sun set in the

east only an hour and a half ago. Would that those clouds would disclose

what enormous luminary lies behind them! What a fool I was not to have

learnt more astronomy! Perhaps, after all, I am racking my brain over

something that is quite in the ordinary course of nature.”

But, reason as he might, the mysteries of the heavens still remained

impenetrable. For about an hour some luminous body, its disc evidently

of gigantic dimensions, shed its rays upon the upper strata of the

clouds; then, marvelous to relate, instead of obeying the ordinary laws

of celestial mechanism, and descending upon the opposite horizon, it

seemed to retreat farther off, grew dimmer, and vanished.

The darkness that returned to the face of the earth was not more

profound than the gloom which fell upon the captain’s soul. Everything

was incomprehensible. The simplest mechanical rules seemed falsified;

the planets had defied the laws of gravitation; the motions of the

celestial spheres were erroneous as those of a watch with a defective

mainspring, and there was reason to fear that the sun would never again

shed his radiance upon the earth.

But these last fears were groundless. In three hours’ time, without any

intervening twilight, the morning sun made its appearance in the west,

and day once more had dawned. On consulting his watch, Servadac

found that night had lasted precisely six hours. Ben Zoof, who was

unaccustomed to so brief a period of repose, was still slumbering

soundly.

“Come, wake up!” said Servadac, shaking him by the shoulder; “it is time

to start.”

“Time to start?” exclaimed Ben Zoof, rubbing his eyes. “I feel as if I

had only just gone to sleep.”

“You have slept all night, at any rate,” replied the captain; “it has

only been for six hours, but you must make it enough.”

“Enough it shall be, sir,” was the submissive rejoinder.

“And now,” continued Servadac, “we will take the shortest way back to

the gourbi, and see what our horses think about it all.”

“They will think that they ought to be groomed,” said the orderly.

“Very good; you may groom them and saddle them as quickly as you like.

I want to know what has become of the rest of Algeria: if we cannot get

round by the south to Mostaganem, we must go eastwards to Tenes.” And

forthwith they started. Beginning to feel hungry, they had no hesitation

in gathering figs, dates, and oranges from the plantations that formed a

continuous rich and luxuriant orchard along their path. The district was

quite deserted, and they had no reason to fear any legal penalty.

In an hour and a half they reached the gourbi. Everything was just as

they had left it, and it was evident that no one had visited the place

during their absence. All was desolate as the shore they had quitted.

The preparations for the expedition were brief and simple. Ben Zoof

saddled the horses and filled his pouch with biscuits and game; water,

he felt certain, could be obtained in abundance from the numerous

affluents of the Shelif, which, although they had now become tributaries

of the Mediterranean, still meandered through the plain. Captain

Servadac mounted his horse Zephyr, and Ben Zoof simultaneously got

astride his mare Galette, named after the mill of Montmartre. They

galloped off in the direction of the Shelif, and were not long in

discovering that the diminution in the pressure of the atmosphere

had precisely the same effect upon their horses as it had had upon

themselves. Their muscular strength seemed five times as great as

hitherto; their hoofs scarcely touched the ground, and they seemed

transformed from ordinary quadrupeds into veritable hippogriffs.

Happily, Servadac and his orderly were fearless riders; they made no

attempt to curb their steeds, but even urged them to still greater

exertions. Twenty minutes sufficed to carry them over the four or five

miles that intervened between the gourbi and the mouth of the Shelif;

then, slackening their speed, they proceeded at a more leisurely pace to

the southeast, along what had once been the right bank of the river, but

which, although it still retained its former characteristics, was now

the boundary of a sea, which extending farther than the limits of the

horizon, must have swallowed up at least a large portion of the province

of Oran. Captain Servadac knew the country well; he had at one time been

engaged upon a trigonometrical survey of the district, and consequently

had an accurate knowledge of its topography. His idea now was to draw up

a report of his investigations: to whom that report should be delivered

was a problem he had yet to solve.

During the four hours of daylight that still remained, the travelers

rode about twenty-one miles from the river mouth. To their vast

surprise, they did not meet a single human being. At nightfall they

again encamped in a slight bend of the shore, at a point which on the

previous evening had faced the mouth of the Mina, one of the left-hand

affluents of the Shelif, but now absorbed into the newly revealed

ocean. Ben Zoof made the sleeping accommodation as comfortable as the

circumstances would allow; the horses were clogged and turned out to

feed upon the rich pasture that clothed the shore, and the night passed

without special incident.

At sunrise on the following morning, the 2nd of January, or what,

according to the ordinary calendar, would have been the night of the

1st, the captain and his orderly remounted their horses, and during the

six-hours’ day accomplished a distance of forty-two miles. The right

bank of the river still continued to be the margin of the land, and only

in one spot had its integrity been impaired. This was about twelve miles

from the Mina, and on the site of the annex or suburb of Surkelmittoo.

Here a large portion of the bank had been swept away, and the hamlet,

with its eight hundred inhabitants, had no doubt been swallowed up by

the encroaching waters. It seemed, therefore, more than probable that a

similar fate had overtaken the larger towns beyond the Shelif.

In the evening the explorers encamped, as previously, in a nook of the

shore which here abruptly terminated their new domain, not far from

where they might have expected to find the important village of

Memounturroy; but of this, too, there was now no trace. “I had quite

reckoned upon a supper and a bed at Orleansville to-night,” said

Servadac, as, full of despondency, he surveyed the waste of water.

“Quite impossible,” replied Ben Zoof, “except you had gone by a boat.

But cheer up, sir, cheer up; we will soon devise some means for getting

across to Mostaganem.”

“If, as I hope,” rejoined the captain, “we are on a peninsula, we are

more likely to get to Tenes; there we shall hear the news.”

“Far more likely to carry the news ourselves,” answered Ben Zoof, as he

threw himself down for his night’s rest.

Six hours later, only waiting for sunrise, Captain Servadac set himself

in movement again to renew his investigations. At this spot the shore,

that hitherto had been running in a southeasterly direction, turned

abruptly to the north, being no longer formed by the natural bank of the

Shelif, but consisting of an absolutely new coast-line. No land was in

sight. Nothing could be seen of Orleansville, which ought to have been

about six miles to the southwest; and Ben Zoof, who had mounted the

highest point of view attainable, could distinguish sea, and nothing but

sea, to the farthest horizon.

Quitting their encampment and riding on, the bewildered explorers kept

close to the new shore. This, since it had ceased to be formed by the

original river bank, had considerably altered its aspect. Frequent

landslips occurred, and in many places deep chasms rifted the ground;

great gaps furrowed the fields, and trees, half uprooted, overhung the

water, remarkable by the fantastic distortions of their gnarled trunks,

looking as though they had been chopped by a hatchet.

The sinuosities of the coast line, alternately gully and headland,

had the effect of making a devious progress for the travelers, and at

sunset, although they had accomplished more than twenty miles, they had

only just arrived at the foot of the Merdeyah Mountains, which, before

the cataclysm, had formed the extremity of the chain of the Little

Atlas. The ridge, however, had been violently ruptured, and now rose

perpendicularly from the water.

On the following morning Servadac and Ben Zoof traversed one of the

mountain gorges; and next, in order to make a more thorough acquaintance

with the limits and condition of the section of Algerian territory of

which they seemed to be left as the sole occupants, they dismounted, and

proceeded on foot to the summit of one of the highest peaks. From this

elevation they ascertained that from the base of the Merdeyah to the

Mediterranean, a distance of about eighteen miles, a new coast line had

come into existence; no land was visible in any direction; no isthmus

existed to form a connecting link with the territory of Tenes, which had

entirely disappeared. The result was that Captain Servadac was driven

to the irresistible conclusion that the tract of land which he had been

surveying was not, as he had at first imagined, a peninsula; it was

actually an island.

Strictly speaking, this island was quadrilateral, but the sides were so

irregular that it was much more nearly a triangle, the comparison of the

sides exhibiting these proportions: The section of the right bank of the

Shelif, seventy-two miles; the southern boundary from the Shelif to the

chain of the Little Atlas, twenty-one miles; from the Little Atlas to

the Mediterranean, eighteen miles; and sixty miles of the shore of the

Mediterranean itself, making in all an entire circumference of about 171

miles.

“What does it all mean?” exclaimed the captain, every hour growing more

and more bewildered.

“The will of Providence, and we must submit,” replied Ben Zoof, calm and

undisturbed. With this reflection, the two men silently descended the

mountain and remounted their horses. Before evening they had reached

the Mediterranean. On their road they failed to discern a vestige of the

little town of Montenotte; like Tenes, of which not so much as a ruined

cottage was visible on the horizon, it seemed to be annihilated.

On the following day, the 6th of January, the two men made a forced

march along the coast of the Mediterranean, which they found less

altered than the captain had at first supposed; but four villages had

entirely disappeared, and the headlands, unable to resist the shock of

the convulsion, had been detached from the mainland.

The circuit of the island had been now completed, and the explorers,

after a period of sixty hours, found themselves once more beside the

ruins of their gourbi. Five days, or what, according to the established

order of things, would have been two days and a half, had been occupied

in tracing the boundaries of their new domain; and they had ascertained

beyond a doubt that they were the sole human inhabitants left upon the

island.

“Well, sir, here you are, Governor General of Algeria!” exclaimed Ben

Zoof, as they reached the gourbi.

“With not a soul to govern,” gloomily rejoined the captain.

“How so? Do you not reckon me?”

“Pshaw! Ben Zoof, what are you?”

“What am I? Why, I am the population.”

The captain deigned no reply, but, muttering some expressions of regret

for the fruitless trouble he had taken about his rondo, betook himself

to rest.

CHAPTER VII. BEN ZOOF WATCHES IN VAIN

In a few minutes the governor general and his population were asleep.

The gourbi being in ruins, they were obliged to put up with the best

accommodation they could find in the adjacent erection. It must be owned

that the captain’s slumbers were by no means sound; he was agitated by

the consciousness that he had hitherto been unable to account for his

strange experiences by any reasonable theory. Though far from being

advanced in the knowledge of natural philosophy, he had been instructed,

to a certain degree, in its elementary principles; and, by an effort

of memory, he managed to recall some general laws which he had almost

forgotten. He could understand that an altered inclination of the

earth’s axis with regard to the ecliptic would introduce a change of

position in the cardinal points, and bring about a displacement of

the sea; but the hypothesis entirely failed to account, either for the

shortening of the days, or for the diminution in the pressure of the

atmosphere. He felt that his judgment was utterly baffled; his only

remaining hope was that the chain of marvels was not yet complete, and

that something farther might throw some light upon the mystery.

Ben Zoof’s first care on the following morning was to provide a

good breakfast. To use his own phrase, he was as hungry as the

whole population of three million Algerians, of whom he was the

representative, and he must have enough to eat. The catastrophe which

had overwhelmed the country had left a dozen eggs uninjured, and upon

these, with a good dish of his famous couscous, he hoped that he and his

master might have a sufficiently substantial meal. The stove was ready

for use, the copper skillet was as bright as hands could make it, and

the beads of condensed steam upon the surface of a large stone al-caraza

gave evidence that it was supplied with water. Ben Zoof at once lighted

a fire, singing all the time, according to his wont, a snatch of an old

military refrain.

Ever on the lookout for fresh phenomena, Captain Servadac watched the

preparations with a curious eye. It struck him that perhaps the air,

in its strangely modified condition, would fail to supply sufficient

oxygen, and that the stove, in consequence, might not fulfill its

function. But no; the fire was lighted just as usual, and fanned into

vigor by Ben Zoof applying his mouth in lieu of bellows, and a bright

flame started up from the midst of the twigs and coal. The skillet was

duly set upon the stove, and Ben Zoof was prepared to wait awhile for

the water to boil. Taking up the eggs, he was surprised to notice that

they hardly weighed more than they would if they had been mere shells;

but he was still more surprised when he saw that before the water had

been two minutes over the fire it was at full boil.

“By jingo!” he exclaimed, “a precious hot fire!”

Servadac reflected. “It cannot be that the fire is hotter,” he said,

“the peculiarity must be in the water.” And taking down a centigrade

thermometer, which hung upon the wall, he plunged it into the skillet.

Instead of 100 degrees, the instrument registered only 66 degrees.

“Take my advice, Ben Zoof,” he said; “leave your eggs in the saucepan a

good quarter of an hour.”

“Boil them hard! That will never do,” objected the orderly.

“You will not find them hard, my good fellow. Trust me, we shall be able

to dip our sippets into the yolks easily enough.”

The captain was quite right in his conjecture, that this new phenomenon

was caused by a diminution in the pressure of the atmosphere. Water

boiling at a temperature of 66 degrees was itself an evidence that the

column of air above the earth’s surface had become reduced by one-third

of its altitude. The identical phenomenon would have occurred at

the summit of a mountain 35,000 feet high; and had Servadac been in

possession of a barometer, he would have immediately discovered the fact

that only now for the first time, as the result of experiment, revealed

itself to him--a fact, moreover, which accounted for the compression of

the blood-vessels which both he and Ben Zoof had experienced, as well

as for the attenuation of their voices and their accelerated breathing.

“And yet,” he argued with himself, “if our encampment has been projected

to so great an elevation, how is it that the sea remains at its proper

level?”

Once again Hector Servadac, though capable of tracing consequences, felt

himself totally at a loss to comprehend their cause; hence his agitation

and bewilderment!

After their prolonged immersion in the boiling water, the eggs were

found to be only just sufficiently cooked; the couscous was very much in

the same condition; and Ben Zoof came to the conclusion that in future

he must be careful to commence his culinary operations an hour earlier.

He was rejoiced at last to help his master, who, in spite of his

perplexed preoccupation, seemed to have a very fair appetite for

breakfast.

“Well, captain?” said Ben Zoof presently, such being his ordinary way of

opening conversation.

“Well, Ben Zoof?” was the captain’s invariable response to his servant’s

formula.

“What are we to do now, sir?”

“We can only for the present wait patiently where we are. We are

encamped upon an island, and therefore we can only be rescued by sea.”

“But do you suppose that any of our friends are still alive?” asked Ben

Zoof.

“Oh, I think we must indulge the hope that this catastrophe has not

extended far. We must trust that it has limited its mischief to some

small portion of the Algerian coast, and that our friends are all alive

and well. No doubt the governor general will be anxious to investigate

the full extent of the damage, and will send a vessel from Algiers to

explore. It is not likely that we shall be forgotten. What, then, you

have to do, Ben Zoof, is to keep a sharp lookout, and to be ready, in

case a vessel should appear, to make signals at once.”

“But if no vessel should appear!” sighed the orderly.

“Then we must build a boat, and go in search of those who do not come in

search of us.”

“Very good. But what sort of a sailor are you?”

“Everyone can be a sailor when he must,” said Servadac calmly.

Ben Zoof said no more. For several succeeding days he scanned the

horizon unintermittently with his telescope. His watching was in vain.

No ship appeared upon the desert sea. “By the name of a Kabyle!” he

broke out impatiently, “his Excellency is grossly negligent!”

Although the days and nights had become reduced from twenty-four hours

to twelve, Captain Servadac would not accept the new condition of

things, but resolved to adhere to the computations of the old calendar.

Notwithstanding, therefore, that the sun had risen and set twelve times

since the commencement of the new year, he persisted in calling the

following day the 6th of January. His watch enabled him to keep an

accurate account of the passing hours.

In the course of his life, Ben Zoof had read a few books. After

pondering one day, he said: “It seems to me, captain, that you have

turned into Robinson Crusoe, and that I am your man Friday. I hope I

have not become a negro.”

“No,” replied the captain. “Your complexion isn’t the fairest in the

world, but you are not black yet.”

“Well, I had much sooner be a white Friday than a black one,” rejoined

Ben Zoof.

Still no ship appeared; and Captain Servadac, after the example of all

previous Crusoes, began to consider it advisable to investigate the

resources of his domain. The new territory of which he had become the

monarch he named Gourbi Island. It had a superficial area of about

nine hundred square miles. Bullocks, cows, goats, and sheep existed in

considerable numbers; and as there seemed already to be an abundance

of game, it was hardly likely that a future supply would fail them. The

condition of the cereals was such as to promise a fine ingathering of

wheat, maize, and rice; so that for the governor and his population,

with their two horses, not only was there ample provision, but even if

other human inhabitants besides themselves should yet be discovered,

there was not the remotest prospect of any of them perishing by

starvation.

From the 6th to the 13th of January the rain came down in torrents; and,

what was quite an unusual occurrence at this season of the year, several

heavy storms broke over the island. In spite, however, of the continual

downfall, the heavens still remained veiled in cloud. Servadac,

moreover, did not fail to observe that for the season the temperature

was unusually high; and, as a matter still more surprising, that it kept

steadily increasing, as though the earth were gradually and continuously

approximating to the sun. In proportion to the rise of temperature, the

light also assumed greater intensity; and if it had not been for

the screen of vapor interposed between the sky and the island, the

irradiation which would have illumined all terrestrial objects would

have been vivid beyond all precedent.

But neither sun, moon, nor star ever appeared; and Servadac’s irritation

and annoyance at being unable to identify any one point of the firmament

may be more readily imagined than described. On one occasion Ben Zoof

endeavored to mitigate his master’s impatience by exhorting him to

assume the resignation, even if he did not feel the indifference, which

he himself experienced; but his advice was received with so angry a

rebuff that he retired in all haste, abashed, to résumé his watchman’s

duty, which he performed with exemplary perseverance. Day and night,

with the shortest possible intervals of rest, despite wind, rain, and

storm, he mounted guard upon the cliff--but all in vain. Not a speck

appeared upon the desolate horizon. To say the truth, no vessel could

have stood against the weather. The hurricane raged with tremendous

fury, and the waves rose to a height that seemed to defy calculation.

Never, even in the second era of creation, when, under the influence of

internal heat, the waters rose in vapor to descend in deluge back upon

the world, could meteorological phenomena have been developed with more

impressive intensity.

But by the night of the 13th the tempest appeared to have spent its

fury; the wind dropped; the rain ceased as if by a spell; and Servadac,

who for the last six days had confined himself to the shelter of his

roof, hastened to join Ben Zoof at his post upon the cliff. Now, he

thought, there might be a chance of solving his perplexity; perhaps now

the huge disc, of which he had had an imperfect glimpse on the night of

the 31st of December, might again reveal itself; at any rate, he hoped

for an opportunity of observing the constellations in a clear firmament

above.

The night was magnificent. Not a cloud dimmed the luster of the stars,

which spangled the heavens in surpassing brilliancy, and several nebulae

which hitherto no astronomer had been able to discern without the aid of

a telescope were clearly visible to the naked eye.

By a natural impulse, Servadac’s first thought was to observe the

position of the pole-star. It was in sight, but so near to the horizon

as to suggest the utter impossibility of its being any longer the

central pivot of the sidereal system; it occupied a position through

which it was out of the question that the axis of the earth indefinitely

prolonged could ever pass. In his impression he was more thoroughly

confirmed when, an hour later, he noticed that the star had approached

still nearer the horizon, as though it had belonged to one of the

zodiacal constellations.

The pole-star being manifestly thus displaced, it remained to be

discovered whether any other of the celestial bodies had become a

fixed center around which the constellations made their apparent daily

revolutions. To the solution of this problem Servadac applied himself

with the most thoughtful diligence. After patient observation, he

satisfied himself that the required conditions were answered by a

certain star that was stationary not far from the horizon. This

was Vega, in the constellation Lyra, a star which, according to the

precession of the equinoxes, will take the place of our pole-star 12,000

years hence. The most daring imagination could not suppose that a period

of 12,000 years had been crowded into the space of a fortnight; and

therefore the captain came, as to an easier conclusion, to the opinion

that the earth’s axis had been suddenly and immensely shifted; and

from the fact that the axis, if produced, would pass through a point

so little removed above the horizon, he deduced the inference that the

Mediterranean must have been transported to the equator.

Lost in bewildering maze of thought, he gazed long and intently upon the

heavens. His eyes wandered from where the tail of the Great Bear, now a

zodiacal constellation, was scarcely visible above the waters, to where

the stars of the southern hemisphere were just breaking on his view. A

cry from Ben Zoof recalled him to himself.

“The moon!” shouted the orderly, as though overjoyed at once again

beholding what the poet has called:

“The kind companion of terrestrial night;”

and he pointed to a disc that was rising at a spot precisely opposite

the place where they would have expected to see the sun. “The moon!”

again he cried.

But Captain Servadac could not altogether enter into his servant’s

enthusiasm. If this were actually the moon, her distance from the

earth must have been increased by some millions of miles. He was rather

disposed to suspect that it was not the earth’s satellite at all,

but some planet with its apparent magnitude greatly enlarged by its

approximation to the earth. Taking up the powerful field-glass which

he was accustomed to use in his surveying operations, he proceeded to

investigate more carefully the luminous orb. But he failed to trace

any of the lineaments, supposed to resemble a human face, that mark the

lunar surface; he failed to decipher any indications of hill and plain;

nor could he make out the aureole of light which emanates from what

astronomers have designated Mount Tycho. “It is not the moon,” he said

slowly.

“Not the moon?” cried Ben Zoof. “Why not?”

“It is not the moon,” again affirmed the captain.

“Why not?” repeated Ben Zoof, unwilling to renounce his first

impression.

“Because there is a small satellite in attendance.” And the captain drew

his servant’s attention to a bright speck, apparently about the size of

one of Jupiter’s satellites seen through a moderate telescope, that was

clearly visible just within the focus of his glass.

Here, then, was a fresh mystery. The orbit of this planet was assuredly

interior to the orbit of the earth, because it accompanied the sun

in its apparent motion; yet it was neither Mercury nor Venus, because

neither one nor the other of these has any satellite at all.

The captain stamped and stamped again with mingled vexation, agitation,

and bewilderment. “Confound it!” he cried, “if this is neither Venus nor

Mercury, it must be the moon; but if it is the moon, whence, in the name

of all the gods, has she picked up another moon for herself?”

The captain was in dire perplexity.

CHAPTER VIII. VENUS IN PERILOUS PROXIMITY

The light of the returning sun soon extinguished the glory of the stars,

and rendered it necessary for the captain to postpone his observations.

He had sought in vain for further trace of the huge disc that had so

excited his wonder on the 1st, and it seemed most probable that, in its

irregular orbit, it had been carried beyond the range of vision.

The weather was still superb. The wind, after veering to the west, had

sunk to a perfect calm. Pursuing its inverted course, the sun rose and

set with undeviating regularity; and the days and nights were still

divided into periods of precisely six hours each--a sure proof that the

sun remained close to the new equator which manifestly passed through

Gourbi Island.

Meanwhile the temperature was steadily increasing. The captain kept his

thermometer close at hand where he could repeatedly consult it, and on

the 15th he found that it registered 50 degrees centigrade in the shade.

No attempt had been made to rebuild the gourbi, but the captain and

Ben Zoof managed to make up quarters sufficiently comfortable in the

principal apartment of the adjoining structure, where the stone walls,

that at first afforded a refuge from the torrents of rain, now formed an

equally acceptable shelter from the burning sun. The heat was becoming

insufferable, surpassing the heat of Senegal and other equatorial

regions; not a cloud ever tempered the intensity of the solar rays;

and unless some modification ensued, it seemed inevitable that all

vegetation should become scorched and burnt off from the face of the

island.

In spite, however, of the profuse perspirations from which he suffered,

Ben Zoof, constant to his principles, expressed no surprise at the

unwonted heat. No remonstrances from his master could induce him to

abandon his watch from the cliff. To withstand the vertical beams of

that noontide sun would seem to require a skin of brass and a brain

of adamant; but yet, hour after hour, he would remain conscientiously

scanning the surface of the Mediterranean, which, calm and deserted, lay

outstretched before him. On one occasion, Servadac, in reference to his

orderly’s indomitable perseverance, happened to remark that he thought

he must have been born in the heart of equatorial Africa; to which Ben

Zoof replied, with the utmost dignity, that he was born at Montmartre,

which was all the same. The worthy fellow was unwilling to own that,

even in the matter of heat, the tropics could in any way surpass his own

much-loved home.

This unprecedented temperature very soon began to take effect upon the

products of the soil. The sap rose rapidly in the trees, so that in the

course of a few days buds, leaves, flowers, and fruit had come to full

maturity. It was the same with the cereals; wheat and maize sprouted and

ripened as if by magic, and for a while a rank and luxuriant pasturage

clothed the meadows. Summer and autumn seemed blended into one. If

Captain Servadac had been more deeply versed in astronomy, he would

perhaps have been able to bring to bear his knowledge that if the axis

of the earth, as everything seemed to indicate, now formed a right angle

with the plane of the ecliptic, her various seasons, like those of the

planet Jupiter, would become limited to certain zones, in which they

would remain invariable. But even if he had understood the _rationale_

of the change, the convulsion that had brought it about would have been

as much a mystery as ever.

The precocity of vegetation caused some embarrassment. The time for

the corn and fruit harvest had fallen simultaneously with that of the

haymaking; and as the extreme heat precluded any prolonged exertions,

it was evident “the population” of the island would find it difficult to

provide the necessary amount of labor. Not that the prospect gave

them much concern: the provisions of the gourbi were still far from

exhausted, and now that the roughness of the weather had so happily

subsided, they had every encouragement to hope that a ship of some

sort would soon appear. Not only was that part of the Mediterranean

systematically frequented by the government steamers that watched the

coast, but vessels of all nations were constantly cruising off the

shore.

In spite, however, of all their sanguine speculations, no ship appeared.

Ben Zoof admitted the necessity of extemporizing a kind of parasol for

himself, otherwise he must literally have been roasted to death upon the

exposed summit of the cliff.

Meanwhile, Servadac was doing his utmost--it must be acknowledged, with

indifferent success--to recall the lessons of his school-days. He would

plunge into the wildest speculations in his endeavors to unravel

the difficulties of the new situation, and struggled into a kind of

conviction that if there had been a change of manner in the earth’s

rotation on her axis, there would be a corresponding change in her

revolution round the sun, which would involve the consequence of the

length of the year being either diminished or increased.

Independently of the increased and increasing heat, there was another

very conclusive demonstration that the earth had thus suddenly

approximated towards the sun. The diameter of the solar disc was now

exactly twice what it ordinarily looks to the naked eye; in fact, it was

precisely such as it would appear to an observer on the surface of the

planet Venus. The most obvious inference would therefore be that the

earth’s distance from the sun had been diminished from 91,000,000 to

66,000,000 miles. If the just equilibrium of the earth had thus been

destroyed, and should this diminution of distance still continue, would

there not be reason to fear that the terrestrial world would be carried

onwards to actual contact with the sun, which must result in its total

annihilation?

The continuance of the splendid weather afforded Servadac every facility

for observing the heavens. Night after night, constellations in

their beauty lay stretched before his eyes--an alphabet which, to his

mortification, not to say his rage, he was unable to decipher. In the

apparent dimensions of the fixed stars, in their distance, in their

relative position with regard to each other, he could observe no change.

Although it is established that our sun is approaching the constellation

of Hercules at the rate of more than 126,000,000 miles a year, and

although Arcturus is traveling through space at the rate of fifty-four

miles a second--three times faster than the earth goes round the

sun,--yet such is the remoteness of those stars that no appreciable

change is evident to the senses. The fixed stars taught him nothing.

Far otherwise was it with the planets. The orbits of Venus and Mercury

are within the orbit of the earth, Venus rotating at an average distance

of 66,130,000 miles from the sun, and Mercury at that of 35,393,000.

After pondering long, and as profoundly as he could, upon these figures,

Captain Servadac came to the conclusion that, as the earth was now

receiving about double the amount of light and heat that it had been

receiving before the catastrophe, it was receiving about the same as the

planet Venus; he was driven, therefore, to the estimate of the measure

in which the earth must have approximated to the sun, a deduction in

which he was confirmed when the opportunity came for him to observe

Venus herself in the splendid proportions that she now assumed.

That magnificent planet which--as Phosphorus or Lucifer, Hesperus or

Vesper, the evening star, the morning star, or the shepherd’s star--has

never failed to attract the rapturous admiration of the most indifferent

observers, here revealed herself with unprecedented glory, exhibiting

all the phases of a lustrous moon in miniature. Various indentations in

the outline of its crescent showed that the solar beams were refracted

into regions of its surface where the sun had already set, and proved,

beyond a doubt, that the planet had an atmosphere of her own; and

certain luminous points projecting from the crescent as plainly marked

the existence of mountains. As the result of Servadac’s computations, he

formed the opinion that Venus could hardly be at a greater distance than

6,000,000 miles from the earth.

“And a very safe distance, too,” said Ben Zoof, when his master told him

the conclusion at which he had arrived.

“All very well for two armies, but for a couple of planets not quite so

safe, perhaps, as you may imagine. It is my impression that it is more

than likely we may run foul of Venus,” said the captain.

“Plenty of air and water there, sir?” inquired the orderly.

“Yes; as far as I can tell, plenty,” replied Servadac.

“Then why shouldn’t we go and visit Venus?”

Servadac did his best to explain that as the two planets were of

about equal volume, and were traveling with great velocity in opposite

directions, any collision between them must be attended with the most

disastrous consequences to one or both of them. But Ben Zoof failed to

see that, even at the worst, the catastrophe could be much more serious

than the collision of two railway trains.

The captain became exasperated. “You idiot!” he angrily exclaimed;

“cannot you understand that the planets are traveling a thousand times

faster than the fastest express, and that if they meet, either one

or the other must be destroyed? What would become of your darling

Montmartre then?”

The captain had touched a tender chord. For a moment Ben Zoof stood with

clenched teeth and contracted muscles; then, in a voice of real concern,

he inquired whether anything could be done to avert the calamity.

“Nothing whatever; so you may go about your own business,” was the

captain’s brusque rejoinder.

All discomfited and bewildered, Ben Zoof retired without a word.

During the ensuing days the distance between the two planets continued

to decrease, and it became more and more obvious that the earth, on her

new orbit, was about to cross the orbit of Venus. Throughout this time

the earth had been making a perceptible approach towards Mercury, and

that planet--which is rarely visible to the naked eye, and then only

at what are termed the periods of its greatest eastern and western

elongations--now appeared in all its splendor. It amply justified the

epithet of “sparkling” which the ancients were accustomed to confer

upon it, and could scarcely fail to awaken a new interest. The periodic

recurrence of its phases; its reflection of the sun’s rays, shedding

upon it a light and a heat seven times greater than that received by the

earth; its glacial and its torrid zones, which, on account of the great

inclination of the axis, are scarcely separable; its equatorial bands;

its mountains eleven miles high;--were all subjects of observation

worthy of the most studious regard.

But no danger was to be apprehended from Mercury; with Venus only did

collision appear imminent. By the 18th of January the distance between

that planet and the earth had become reduced to between two and three

millions of miles, and the intensity of its light cast heavy shadows

from all terrestrial objects. It might be observed to turn upon its own

axis in twenty-three hours twenty-one minutes--an evidence, from the

unaltered duration of its days, that the planet had not shared in the

disturbance. On its disc the clouds formed from its atmospheric vapor

were plainly perceptible, as also were the seven spots, which, according

to Bianchini, are a chain of seas. It was now visible in broad daylight.

Buonaparte, when under the Directory, once had his attention called to

Venus at noon, and immediately hailed it joyfully, recognizing it as

his own peculiar star in the ascendant. Captain Servadac, it may well be

imagined, did not experience the same gratifying emotion.

On the 20th, the distance between the two bodies had again sensibly

diminished. The captain had ceased to be surprised that no vessel

had been sent to rescue himself and his companion from their strange

imprisonment; the governor general and the minister of war were

doubtless far differently occupied, and their interests far otherwise

engrossed. What sensational articles, he thought, must now be teeming to

the newspapers! What crowds must be flocking to the churches! The end

of the world approaching! the great climax close at hand! Two days more,

and the earth, shivered into a myriad atoms, would be lost in boundless

space!

These dire forebodings, however, were not destined to be realized.

Gradually the distance between the two planets began to increase; the

planes of their orbits did not coincide, and accordingly the dreaded

catastrophe did not ensue. By the 25th, Venus was sufficiently remote to

preclude any further fear of collision. Ben Zoof gave a sigh of relief

when the captain communicated the glad intelligence.

Their proximity to Venus had been close enough to demonstrate that

beyond a doubt that planet has no moon or satellite such as Cassini,

Short, Montaigne of Limoges, Montbarron, and some other astronomers have

imagined to exist. “Had there been such a satellite,” said Servadac,

“we might have captured it in passing. But what can be the meaning,” he

added seriously, “of all this displacement of the heavenly bodies?”

“What is that great building at Paris, captain, with a top like a cap?”

asked Ben Zoof.

“Do you mean the Observatory?”

“Yes, the Observatory. Are there not people living in the Observatory

who could explain all this?”

“Very likely; but what of that?”

“Let us be philosophers, and wait patiently until we can hear their

explanation.”

Servadac smiled. “Do you know what it is to be a philosopher, Ben Zoof?”

he asked.

“I am a soldier, sir,” was the servant’s prompt rejoinder, “and I have

learnt to know that ‘what can’t be cured must be endured.’”

The captain made no reply, but for a time, at least, he desisted from

puzzling himself over matters which he felt he was utterly incompetent

to explain. But an event soon afterwards occurred which awakened his

keenest interest.

About nine o’clock on the morning of the 27th, Ben Zoof walked

deliberately into his master’s apartment, and, in reply to a question as

to what he wanted, announced with the utmost composure that a ship was

in sight.

“A ship!” exclaimed Servadac, starting to his feet. “A ship! Ben Zoof,

you donkey! you speak as unconcernedly as though you were telling me

that my dinner was ready.”

“Are we not philosophers, captain?” said the orderly.

But the captain was out of hearing.

CHAPTER IX. INQUIRIES UNSATISFIED

Fast as his legs could carry him, Servadac had made his way to the top

of the cliff. It was quite true that a vessel was in sight, hardly more

than six miles from the shore; but owing to the increase in the earth’s

convexity, and the consequent limitation of the range of vision, the

rigging of the topmasts alone was visible above the water. This was

enough, however, to indicate that the ship was a schooner--an impression

that was confirmed when, two hours later, she came entirely in sight.

“The _Dobryna_!” exclaimed Servadac, keeping his eye unmoved at his

telescope.

“Impossible, sir!” rejoined Ben Zoof; “there are no signs of smoke.”

“The _Dobryna_!” repeated the captain, positively. “She is under sail;

but she is Count Timascheff’s yacht.”

He was right. If the count were on board, a strange fatality was

bringing him to the presence of his rival. But no longer now could

Servadac regard him in the light of an adversary; circumstances had

changed, and all animosity was absorbed in the eagerness with which

he hailed the prospect of obtaining some information about the recent

startling and inexplicable events. During the twenty-seven days that she

had been absent, the _Dobryna_, he conjectured, would have explored the

Mediterranean, would very probably have visited Spain, France, or Italy,

and accordingly would convey to Gourbi Island some intelligence from

one or other of those countries. He reckoned, therefore, not only upon

ascertaining the extent of the late catastrophe, but upon learning

its cause. Count Timascheff was, no doubt, magnanimously coming to the

rescue of himself and his orderly.

The wind being adverse, the _Dobryna_ did not make very rapid progress;

but as the weather, in spite of a few clouds, remained calm, and the

sea was quite smooth, she was enabled to hold a steady course. It seemed

unaccountable that she should not use her engine, as whoever was on

board, would be naturally impatient to reconnoiter the new island, which

must just have come within their view. The probability that suggested

itself was that the schooner’s fuel was exhausted.

Servadac took it for granted that the _Dobryna_ was endeavoring to

put in. It occurred to him, however, that the count, on discovering an

island where he had expected to find the mainland of Africa, would not

unlikely be at a loss for a place of anchorage. The yacht was evidently

making her way in the direction of the former mouth of the Shelif,

and the captain was struck with the idea that he would do well to

investigate whether there was any suitable mooring towards which he

might signal her. Zephyr and Galette were soon saddled, and in twenty

minutes had carried their riders to the western extremity of the island,

where they both dismounted and began to explore the coast.

They were not long in ascertaining that on the farther side of the

point there was a small well-sheltered creek of sufficient depth to

accommodate a vessel of moderate tonnage. A narrow channel formed a

passage through the ridge of rocks that protected it from the open sea,

and which, even in the roughest weather, would ensure the calmness of

its waters.

Whilst examining the rocky shore, the captain observed, to his great

surprise, long and well-defined rows of seaweed, which undoubtedly

betokened that there had been a very considerable ebb and flow of the

waters--a thing unknown in the Mediterranean, where there is scarcely

any perceptible tide. What, however, seemed most remarkable, was the

manifest evidence that ever since the highest flood (which was caused,

in all probability, by the proximity of the body of which the huge

disc had been so conspicuous on the night of the 31st of December) the

phenomenon had been gradually lessening, and in fact was now reduced to

the normal limits which had characterized it before the convulsion.

Without doing more than note the circumstance, Servadac turned his

entire attention to the _Dobryna_, which, now little more than a mile

from shore, could not fail to see and understand his signals. Slightly

changing her course, she first struck her mainsail, and, in order to

facilitate the movements of her helmsman, soon carried nothing but her

two topsails, brigantine and jib. After rounding the peak, she steered

direct for the channel to which Servadac by his gestures was pointing

her, and was not long in entering the creek. As soon as the anchor,

imbedded in the sandy bottom, had made good its hold, a boat was

lowered. In a few minutes more Count Timascheff had landed on the

island. Captain Servadac hastened towards him.

“First of all, count,” he exclaimed impetuously, “before we speak one

other word, tell me what has happened.”

The count, whose imperturbable composure presented a singular contrast

to the French officer’s enthusiastic vivacity, made a stiff bow, and

in his Russian accent replied: “First of all, permit me to express my

surprise at seeing you here. I left you on a continent, and here I have

the honor of finding you on an island.”

“I assure you, count, I have never left the place.”

“I am quite aware of it. Captain Servadac, and I now beg to offer you my

sincere apologies for failing to keep my appointment with you.”

“Never mind, now,” interposed the captain; “we will talk of that

by-and-by. First, tell me what has happened.”

“The very question I was about to put to you, Captain Servadac.”

“Do you mean to say you know nothing of the cause, and can tell me

nothing of the extent, of the catastrophe which has transformed this

part of Africa into an island?”

“Nothing more than you know yourself.”

“But surely, Count Timascheff, you can inform me whether upon the

northern shore of the Mediterranean--”

“Are you certain that this is the Mediterranean?” asked the count

significantly, and added, “I have discovered no sign of land.”

The captain stared in silent bewilderment. For some moments he seemed

perfectly stupefied; then, recovering himself, he began to overwhelm the

count with a torrent of questions. Had he noticed, ever since the 1st

of January, that the sun had risen in the west? Had he noticed that the

days had been only six hours long, and that the weight of the atmosphere

was so much diminished? Had he observed that the moon had quite

disappeared, and that the earth had been in imminent hazard of running

foul of the planet Venus? Was he aware, in short, that the entire

motions of the terrestrial sphere had undergone a complete modification?

To all these inquiries, the count responded in the affirmative. He

was acquainted with everything that had transpired; but, to Servadac’s

increasing astonishment, he could throw no light upon the cause of any

of the phenomena.

“On the night of the 31st of December,” he said, “I was proceeding by

sea to our appointed place of meeting, when my yacht was suddenly caught

on the crest of an enormous wave, and carried to a height which it

is beyond my power to estimate. Some mysterious force seemed to have

brought about a convulsion of the elements. Our engine was damaged, nay

disabled, and we drifted entirely at the mercy of the terrible hurricane

that raged during the succeeding days. That the _Dobryna_ escaped at all

is little less than a miracle, and I can only attribute her safety

to the fact that she occupied the center of the vast cyclone, and

consequently did not experience much change of position.”

He paused, and added: “Your island is the first land we have seen.”

“Then let us put out to sea at once and ascertain the extent of the

disaster,” cried the captain, eagerly. “You will take me on board,

count, will you not?”

“My yacht is at your service, sir, even should you require to make a

tour round the world.”

“A tour round the Mediterranean will suffice for the present, I think,”

said the captain, smiling.

The count shook his head.

“I am not sure,” said he, “but what the tour of the Mediterranean will

prove to be the tour of the world.”

Servadac made no reply, but for a time remained silent and absorbed in

thought.

After the silence was broken, they consulted as to what course was

best to pursue; and the plan they proposed was, in the first place, to

discover how much of the African coast still remained, and to carry on

the tidings of their own experiences to Algiers; or, in the event of the

southern shore having actually disappeared, they would make their way

northwards and put themselves in communication with the population on

the river banks of Europe.

Before starting, it was indispensable that the engine of the _Dobryna_

should be repaired: to sail under canvas only would in contrary winds

and rough seas be both tedious and difficult. The stock of coal on

board was adequate for two months’ consumption; but as it would at

the expiration of that time be exhausted, it was obviously the part

of prudence to employ it in reaching a port where fuel could be

replenished.

The damage sustained by the engine proved to be not very serious; and

in three days after her arrival the _Dobryna_ was again ready to put to

sea.

Servadac employed the interval in making the count acquainted with

all he knew about his small domain. They made an entire circuit of

the island, and both agreed that it must be beyond the limits of that

circumscribed territory that they must seek an explanation of what had

so strangely transpired.

It was on the last day of January that the repairs of the schooner were

completed. A slight diminution in the excessively high temperature which

had prevailed for the last few weeks, was the only apparent change in

the general order of things; but whether this was to be attributed to

any alteration in the earth’s orbit was a question which would still

require several days to decide. The weather remained fine, and although

a few clouds had accumulated, and might have caused a trifling fall

of the barometer, they were not sufficiently threatening to delay the

departure of the _Dobryna_.

Doubts now arose, and some discussion followed, whether or not it was

desirable for Ben Zoof to accompany his master. There were various

reasons why he should be left behind, not the least important being that

the schooner had no accommodation for horses, and the orderly would have

found it hard to part with Zephyr, and much more with his own favorite

Galette; besides, it was advisable that there should be some one left to

receive any strangers that might possibly arrive, as well as to keep an

eye upon the herds of cattle which, in the dubious prospect before them,

might prove to be the sole resource of the survivors of the catastrophe.

Altogether, taking into consideration that the brave fellow would incur

no personal risk by remaining upon the island, the captain was induced

with much reluctance to forego the attendance of his servant, hoping

very shortly to return and to restore him to his country, when he had

ascertained the reason of the mysteries in which they were enveloped.

On the 31st, then, Ben Zoof was “invested with governor’s powers,” and

took an affecting leave of his master, begging him, if chance should

carry him near Montmartre, to ascertain whether the beloved “mountain”

had been left unmoved.

Farewells over, the _Dobryna_ was carefully steered through the creek,

and was soon upon the open sea.

CHAPTER X. A SEARCH FOR ALGERIA

The _Dobryna_, a strong craft of 200 tons burden, had been built in the

famous shipbuilding yards in the Isle of Wight. Her sea going qualities

were excellent, and would have amply sufficed for a circumnavigation of

the globe. Count Timascheff was himself no sailor, but had the

greatest confidence in leaving the command of his yacht in the hands of

Lieutenant Procope, a man of about thirty years of age, and an excellent

seaman. Born on the count’s estates, the son of a serf who had been

emancipated long before the famous edict of the Emperor Alexander,

Procope was sincerely attached, by a tie of gratitude as well as of duty

and affection, to his patron’s service. After an apprenticeship on a

merchant ship he had entered the imperial navy, and had already reached

the rank of lieutenant when the count appointed him to the charge of

his own private yacht, in which he was accustomed to spend by far the

greater part of his time, throughout the winter generally cruising in

the Mediterranean, whilst in the summer he visited more northern waters.

The ship could not have been in better hands. The lieutenant was well

informed in many matters outside the pale of his profession, and his

attainments were alike creditable to himself and to the liberal friend

who had given him his education. He had an excellent crew, consisting

of Tiglew the engineer, four sailors named Niegoch, Tolstoy, Etkef, and

Panofka, and Mochel the cook. These men, without exception, were all

sons of the count’s tenants, and so tenaciously, even out at sea, did

they cling to their old traditions, that it mattered little to them what

physical disorganization ensued, so long as they felt they were sharing

the experiences of their lord and master. The late astounding events,

however, had rendered Procope manifestly uneasy, and not the less

so from his consciousness that the count secretly partook of his own

anxiety.

Steam up and canvas spread, the schooner started eastwards. With a

favorable wind she would certainly have made eleven knots an hour

had not the high waves somewhat impeded her progress. Although only a

moderate breeze was blowing, the sea was rough, a circumstance to

be accounted for only by the diminution in the force of the earth’s

attraction rendering the liquid particles so buoyant, that by the mere

effect of oscillation they were carried to a height that was quite

unprecedented. M. Arago has fixed twenty-five or twenty-six feet as

the maximum elevation ever attained by the highest waves, and his

astonishment would have been very great to see them rising fifty or

even sixty feet. Nor did these waves in the usual way partially unfurl

themselves and rebound against the sides of the vessel; they might

rather be described as long undulations carrying the schooner (its

weight diminished from the same cause as that of the water) alternately

to such heights and depths, that if Captain Servadac had been subject to

seasickness he must have found himself in sorry plight. As the pitching,

however, was the result of a long uniform swell, the yacht did not labor

much harder than she would against the ordinary short strong waves of

the Mediterranean; the main inconvenience that was experienced was the

diminution in her proper rate of speed.

For a few miles she followed the line hitherto presumably occupied by

the coast of Algeria; but no land appeared to the south. The changed

positions of the planets rendered them of no avail for purposes of

nautical observation, nor could Lieutenant Procope calculate his

latitude and longitude by the altitude of the sun, as his reckonings

would be useless when applied to charts that had been constructed for

the old order of things; but nevertheless, by means of the log, which

gave him the rate of progress, and by the compass which indicated the

direction in which they were sailing, he was able to form an estimate

of his position that was sufficiently free from error for his immediate

need.

Happily the recent phenomena had no effect upon the compass; the

magnetic needle, which in these regions had pointed about 22 degrees

from the north pole, had never deviated in the least--a proof that,

although east and west had apparently changed places, north and south

continued to retain their normal position as cardinal points. The log

and the compass, therefore, were able to be called upon to do the work

of the sextant, which had become utterly useless.

On the first morning of the cruise Lieutenant Procope, who, like most

Russians, spoke French fluently, was explaining these peculiarities

to Captain Servadac; the count was present, and the conversation

perpetually recurred, as naturally it would, to the phenomena which

remained so inexplicable to them all.

“It is very evident,” said the lieutenant, “that ever since the 1st of

January the earth has been moving in a new orbit, and from some unknown

cause has drawn nearer to the sun.”

“No doubt about that,” said Servadac; “and I suppose that, having

crossed the orbit of Venus, we have a good chance of running into the

orbit of Mercury.”

“And finish up by a collision with the sun!” added the count.

“There is no fear of that, sir. The earth has undoubtedly entered upon

a new orbit, but she is not incurring any probable risk of being

precipitated onto the sun.”

“Can you satisfy us of that?” asked the count.

“I can, sir. I can give you a proof which I think you will own is

conclusive. If, as you suppose, the earth is being drawn on so as to

be precipitated against the sun, the great center of attraction of our

system, it could only be because the centrifugal and centripetal forces

that cause the planets to rotate in their several orbits had been

entirely suspended: in that case, indeed, the earth would rush onwards

towards the sun, and in sixty-four days and a half the catastrophe you

dread would inevitably happen.”

“And what demonstration do you offer,” asked Servadac eagerly, “that it

will not happen?”

“Simply this, captain: that since the earth entered her new orbit

half the sixty-four days has already elapsed, and yet it is only just

recently that she has crossed the orbit of Venus, hardly one-third of

the distance to be traversed to reach the sun.”

The lieutenant paused to allow time for reflection, and added:

“Moreover, I have every reason to believe that we are not so near the

sun as we have been. The temperature has been gradually diminishing;

the heat upon Gourbi Island is not greater now than we might ordinarily

expect to find in Algeria. At the same time, we have the problem still

unsolved that the Mediterranean has evidently been transported to the

equatorial zone.”

Both the count and the captain expressed themselves reassured by his

representations, and observed that they must now do all in their power

to discover what had become of the vast continent of Africa, of which,

they were hitherto failing so completely to find a vestige.

Twenty-four hours after leaving the island, the _Dobryna_ had passed

over the sites where Tenes, Cherchil, Koleah, and Sidi-Feruch once had

been, but of these towns not one appeared within range of the telescope.

Ocean reigned supreme. Lieutenant Procope was absolutely certain that

he had not mistaken his direction; the compass showed that the wind

had never shifted from the west, and this, with the rate of speed as

estimated by the log, combined to assure him that at this date, the 2d

of February, the schooner was in lat. 36 degrees 49 min N. and long. 3

degrees 25 min E., the very spot which ought to have been occupied by

the Algerian capital. But Algiers, like all the other coast-towns, had

apparently been absorbed into the bowels of the earth.

Captain Servadac, with clenched teeth and knitted brow, stood sternly,

almost fiercely, regarding the boundless waste of water. His pulse beat

fast as he recalled the friends and comrades with whom he had spent the

last few years in that vanished city. All the images of his past life

floated upon his memory; his thoughts sped away to his native France,

only to return again to wonder whether the depths of ocean would reveal

any traces of the Algerian metropolis.

“Is it not impossible,” he murmured aloud, “that any city should

disappear so completely? Would not the loftiest eminences of the city

at least be visible? Surely some portion of the Casbah must still rise

above the waves? The imperial fort, too, was built upon an elevation

of 750 feet; it is incredible that it should be so totally submerged.

Unless some vestiges of these are found, I shall begin to suspect that

the whole of Africa has been swallowed in some vast abyss.”

Another circumstance was most remarkable. Not a material object of any

kind was to be noticed floating on the surface of the water; not one

branch of a tree had been seen drifting by, nor one spar belonging to

one of the numerous vessels that a month previously had been moored

in the magnificent bay which stretched twelve miles across from Cape

Matafuz to Point Pexade. Perhaps the depths might disclose what the

surface failed to reveal, and Count Timascheff, anxious that Servadac

should have every facility afforded him for solving his doubts, called

for the sounding-line. Forthwith, the lead was greased and lowered.

To the surprise of all, and especially of Lieutenant Procope, the

line indicated a bottom at a nearly uniform depth of from four to five

fathoms; and although the sounding was persevered with continuously for

more than two hours over a considerable area, the differences of level

were insignificant, not corresponding in any degree to what would be

expected over the site of a city that had been terraced like the seats

of an amphitheater. Astounding as it seemed, what alternative was left

but to suppose that the Algerian capital had been completely leveled by

the flood?

The sea-bottom was composed of neither rock, mud, sand, nor shells;

the sounding-lead brought up nothing but a kind of metallic dust, which

glittered with a strange iridescence, and the nature of which it was

impossible to determine, as it was totally unlike what had ever been

known to be raised from the bed of the Mediterranean.

“You must see, lieutenant, I should think, that we are not so near the

coast of Algeria as you imagined.”

The lieutenant shook his head. After pondering awhile, he said: “If

we were farther away I should expect to find a depth of two or three

hundred fathoms instead of five fathoms. Five fathoms! I confess I am

puzzled.”

For the next thirty-six hours, until the 4th of February, the sea was

examined and explored with the most unflagging perseverance. Its depth

remained invariable, still four, or at most five, fathoms; and although

its bottom was assiduously dredged, it was only to prove it barren of

marine production of any type.

The yacht made its way to lat. 36 degrees, and by reference to the

charts it was tolerably certain that she was cruising over the site of

the Sahel, the ridge that had separated the rich plain of the Mitidja

from the sea, and of which the highest peak, Mount Boujereah, had

reached an altitude of 1,200 feet; but even this peak, which might have

been expected to emerge like an islet above the surface of the sea,

was nowhere to be traced. Nothing was to be done but to put about, and

return in disappointment towards the north.

Thus the _Dobryna_ regained the waters of the Mediterranean without

discovering a trace of the missing province of Algeria.

CHAPTER XI. AN ISLAND TOMB

No longer, then, could there be any doubt as to the annihilation of

a considerable portion of the colony. Not merely had there been a

submersion of the land, but the impression was more and more confirmed

that the very bowels of the earth must have yawned and closed again upon

a large territory. Of the rocky substratum of the province it became

more evident than ever that not a trace remained, and a new soil

of unknown formation had certainly taken the place of the old sandy

sea-bottom. As it altogether transcended the powers of those on board to

elucidate the origin of this catastrophe, it was felt to be incumbent on

them at least to ascertain its extent.

After a long and somewhat wavering discussion, it was at length decided

that the schooner should take advantage of the favorable wind and

weather, and proceed at first towards the east, thus following the

outline of what had formerly represented the coast of Africa, until that

coast had been lost in boundless sea.

Not a vestige of it all remained; from Cape Matafuz to Tunis it had all

gone, as though it had never been. The maritime town of Dellis, built

like Algiers, amphitheater-wise, had totally disappeared; the highest

points were quite invisible; not a trace on the horizon was left of the

Jurjura chain, the topmost point of which was known to have an altitude

of more than 7,000 feet.

Unsparing of her fuel, the _Dobryna_ made her way at full steam towards

Cape Blanc. Neither Cape Negro nor Cape Serrat was to be seen. The town

of Bizerta, once charming in its oriental beauty, had vanished utterly;

its marabouts, or temple-tombs, shaded by magnificent palms that fringed

the gulf, which by reason of its narrow mouth had the semblance of a

lake, all had disappeared, giving place to a vast waste of sea, the

transparent waves of which, as still demonstrated by the sounding-line,

had ever the same uniform and arid bottom.

In the course of the day the schooner rounded the point where, five

weeks previously, Cape Blanc had been so conspicuous an object, and she

was now stemming the waters of what once had been the Bay of Tunis. But

bay there was none, and the town from which it had derived its name,

with the Arsenal, the Goletta, and the two peaks of Bou-Kournein, had

all vanished from the view. Cape Bon, too, the most northern promontory

of Africa and the point of the continent nearest to the island of

Sicily, had been included in the general devastation.

Before the occurrence of the recent prodigy, the bottom of the

Mediterranean just at this point had formed a sudden ridge across the

Straits of Libya. The sides of the ridge had shelved to so great an

extent that, while the depth of water on the summit had been little more

than eleven fathoms, that on either hand of the elevation was little

short of a hundred fathoms. A formation such as this plainly indicated

that at some remote epoch Cape Bon had been connected with Cape Furina,

the extremity of Sicily, in the same manner as Ceuta has doubtless been

connected with Gibraltar.

Lieutenant Procope was too well acquainted with the Mediterranean to

be unaware of this peculiarity, and would not lose the opportunity of

ascertaining whether the submarine ridge still existed, or whether the

sea-bottom between Sicily and Africa had undergone any modification.

Both Timascheff and Servadac were much interested in watching the

operations. At a sign from the lieutenant, a sailor who was stationed at

the foot of the fore-shrouds dropped the sounding-lead into the water,

and in reply to Procope’s inquiries, reported--“Five fathoms and a flat

bottom.”

The next aim was to determine the amount of depression on either side of

the ridge, and for this purpose the _Dobryna_ was shifted for a distance

of half a mile both to the right and left, and the soundings taken

at each station. “Five fathoms and a flat bottom,” was the unvaried

announcement after each operation. Not only, therefore, was it evident

that the submerged chain between Cape Bon and Cape Furina no longer

existed, but it was equally clear that the convulsion had caused a

general leveling of the sea-bottom, and that the soil, degenerated, as

it has been said, into a metallic dust of unrecognized composition,

bore no trace of the sponges, sea-anemones, star-fish, sea-nettles,

hydrophytes, and shells with which the submarine rocks of the

Mediterranean had hitherto been prodigally clothed.

The _Dobryna_ now put about and resumed her explorations in a southerly

direction. It remained, however, as remarkable as ever how completely

throughout the voyage the sea continued to be deserted; all expectations

of hailing a vessel bearing news from Europe were entirely falsified, so

that more and more each member of the crew began to be conscious of his

isolation, and to believe that the schooner, like a second Noah’s ark,

carried the sole survivors of a calamity that had overwhelmed the earth.

On the 9th of February the _Dobryna_ passed over the site of the city

of Dido, the ancient Byrsa--a Carthage, however, which was now more

completely destroyed than ever Punic Carthage had been destroyed by

Scipio Africanus or Roman Carthage by Hassan the Saracen.

In the evening, as the sun was sinking below the eastern horizon,

Captain Servadac was lounging moodily against the taffrail. From the

heaven above, where stars kept peeping fitfully from behind the moving

clouds, his eye wandered mechanically to the waters below, where the

long waves were rising and falling with the evening breeze.

All at once, his attention was arrested by a luminous speck straight

ahead on the southern horizon. At first, imagining that he was the

victim of some spectral illusion, he observed it with silent attention;

but when, after some minutes, he became convinced that what he saw was

actually a distant light, he appealed to one of the sailors, by whom

his impression was fully corroborated. The intelligence was immediately

imparted to Count Timascheff and the lieutenant.

“Is it land, do you suppose?” inquired Servadac, eagerly.

“I should be more inclined to think it is a light on board some ship,”

replied the count.

“Whatever it is, in another hour we shall know all about it,” said

Servadac.

“No, captain,” interposed Lieutenant Procope; “we shall know nothing

until to-morrow.”

“What! not bear down upon it at once?” asked the count in surprise.

“No, sir; I should much rather lay to and wait till daylight. If we are

really near land, I should be afraid to approach it in the dark.”

The count expressed his approval of the lieutenant’s caution, and

thereupon all sail was shortened so as to keep the _Dobryna_ from making

any considerable progress all through the hours of night. Few as those

hours were, they seemed to those on board as if their end would never

come. Fearful lest the faint glimmer should at any moment cease to be

visible, Hector Servadac did not quit his post upon the deck; but the

light continued unchanged. It shone with about the same degree of luster

as a star of the second magnitude, and from the fact of its remaining

stationary, Procope became more and more convinced that it was on land

and did not belong to a passing vessel.

At sunrise every telescope was pointed with keenest interest towards the

center of attraction. The light, of course, had ceased to be visible,

but in the direction where it had been seen, and at a distance of about

ten miles, there was the distinct outline of a solitary island of very

small extent; rather, as the count observed, it had the appearance of

being the projecting summit of a mountain all but submerged. Whatever it

was, it was agreed that its true character must be ascertained, not

only to gratify their own curiosity, but for the benefit of all future

navigators. The schooner accordingly was steered directly towards it,

and in less than an hour had cast anchor within a few cables’ lengths of

the shore.

The little island proved to be nothing more than an arid rock rising

abruptly about forty feet above the water. It had no outlying reefs, a

circumstance that seemed to suggest the probability that in the recent

convulsion it had sunk gradually, until it had reached its present

position of equilibrium.

Without removing his eye from his telescope, Servadac exclaimed: “There

is a habitation on the place; I can see an erection of some kind quite

distinctly. Who can tell whether we shall not come across a human

being?”

Lieutenant Procope looked doubtful. The island had all the appearance of

being deserted, nor did a cannon-shot fired from the schooner have

the effect of bringing any resident to the shore. Nevertheless, it was

undeniable that there was a stone building situated on the top of

the rock, and that this building had much the character of an Arabian

mosque.

The boat was lowered and manned by the four sailors; Servadac,

Timascheff and Procope were quickly rowed ashore, and lost no time

in commencing their ascent of the steep acclivity. Upon reaching the

summit, they found their progress arrested by a kind of wall, or rampart

of singular construction, its materials consisting mainly of vases,

fragments of columns, carved bas-reliefs, statues, and portions of

broken stelae, all piled promiscuously together without any pretense

to artistic arrangement. They made their way into the enclosure, and

finding an open door, they passed through and soon came to a second

door, also open, which admitted them to the interior of the mosque,

consisting of a single chamber, the walls of which were ornamented in

the Arabian style by sculptures of indifferent execution. In the center

was a tomb of the very simplest kind, and above the tomb was suspended a

large silver lamp with a capacious reservoir of oil, in which floated a

long lighted wick, the flame of which was evidently the light that had

attracted Servadac’s attention on the previous night.

“Must there not have been a custodian of the shrine?” they mutually

asked; but if such there had ever been, he must, they concluded, either

have fled or have perished on that eventful night. Not a soul was there

in charge, and the sole living occupants were a flock of wild cormorants

which, startled at the entrance of the intruders, rose on wing, and took

a rapid flight towards the south.

An old French prayer-book was lying on the corner of the tomb; the

volume was open, and the page exposed to view was that which contained

the office for the celebration of the 25th of August. A sudden

revelation dashed across Servadac’s mind. The solemn isolation of the

island tomb, the open breviary, the ritual of the ancient anniversary,

all combined to apprise him of the sanctity of the spot upon which he

stood.

“The tomb of St. Louis!” he exclaimed, and his companions involuntarily

followed his example, and made a reverential obeisance to the venerated

monument.

It was, in truth, the very spot on which tradition asserts that the

canonized monarch came to die, a spot to which for six centuries and

more his countrymen had paid the homage of a pious regard. The lamp

that had been kindled at the memorial shrine of a saint was now in all

probability the only beacon that threw a light across the waters of the

Mediterranean, and even this ere long must itself expire.

There was nothing more to explore. The three together quitted the

mosque, and descended the rock to the shore, whence their boat

re-conveyed them to the schooner, which was soon again on her southward

voyage; and it was not long before the tomb of St. Louis, the only spot

that had survived the mysterious shock, was lost to view.

CHAPTER XII. AT THE MERCY OF THE WINDS

As the affrighted cormorants had winged their flight towards the south,

there sprang up a sanguine hope on board the schooner that land might be

discovered in that direction. Thither, accordingly, it was determined to

proceed, and in a few hours after quitting the island of the tomb,

the _Dobryna_ was traversing the shallow waters that now covered the

peninsula of Dakhul, which had separated the Bay of Tunis from the Gulf

of Hammamet. For two days she continued an undeviating course, and

after a futile search for the coast of Tunis, reached the latitude of 34

degrees.

Here, on the 11th of February, there suddenly arose the cry of “Land!”

and in the extreme horizon, right ahead, where land had never been

before, it was true enough that a shore was distinctly to be seen. What

could it be? It could not be the coast of Tripoli; for not only would

that low-lying shore be quite invisible at such a distance, but it was

certain, moreover, that it lay two degrees at least still further

south. It was soon observed that this newly discovered land was of

very irregular elevation, that it extended due east and west across

the horizon, thus dividing the gulf into two separate sections and

completely concealing the island of Jerba, which must lie behind. Its

position was duly traced on the _Dobryna_‘s chart.

“How strange,” exclaimed Hector Servadac, “that after sailing all this

time over sea where we expected to find land, we have at last come upon

land where we thought to find sea!”

“Strange, indeed,” replied Lieutenant Procope; “and what appears to me

almost as remarkable is that we have never once caught sight either of

one of the Maltese tartans or one of the Levantine xebecs that traffic

so regularly on the Mediterranean.”

“Eastwards or westwards,” asked the count--“which shall be our course?

All farther progress to the south is checked.”

“Westwards, by all means,” replied Servadac quickly. “I am longing to

know whether anything of Algeria is left beyond the Shelif; besides,

as we pass Gourbi Island we might take Ben Zoof on board, and then

make away for Gibraltar, where we should be sure to learn something, at

least, of European news.”

With his usual air of stately courtesy, Count Timascheff begged the

captain to consider the yacht at his own disposal, and desired him to

give the lieutenant instructions accordingly.

Lieutenant Procope, however, hesitated, and after revolving matters

for a few moments in his mind, pointed out that as the wind was blowing

directly from the west, and seemed likely to increase, if they went to

the west in the teeth of the weather, the schooner would be reduced to

the use of her engine only, and would have much difficulty in making any

headway; on the other hand, by taking an eastward course, not only would

they have the advantage of the wind, but, under steam and canvas, might

hope in a few days to be off the coast of Egypt, and from Alexandria or

some other port they would have the same opportunity of getting tidings

from Europe as they would at Gibraltar.

Intensely anxious as he was to revisit the province of Oran, and

eager, too, to satisfy himself of the welfare of his faithful Ben

Zoof, Servadac could not but own the reasonableness of the lieutenant’s

objections, and yielded to the proposal that the eastward course should

be adopted. The wind gave signs only too threatening of the breeze

rising to a gale; but, fortunately, the waves did not culminate in

breakers, but rather in a long swell which ran in the same direction as

the vessel.

During the last fortnight the high temperature had been gradually

diminishing, until it now reached an average of 20 degrees Cent. (or 68

degrees Fahr.), and sometimes descended as low as 15 degrees. That this

diminution was to be attributed to the change in the earth’s orbit was a

question that admitted of little doubt. After approaching so near to the

sun as to cross the orbit of Venus, the earth must now have receded

so far from the sun that its normal distance of ninety-one millions of

miles was greatly increased, and the probability was great that it was

approximating to the orbit of Mars, that planet which in its physical

constitution most nearly resembles our own. Nor was this supposition

suggested merely by the lowering of the temperature; it was strongly

corroborated by the reduction of the apparent diameter of the sun’s disc

to the precise dimensions which it would assume to an observer actually

stationed on the surface of Mars. The necessary inference that seemed to

follow from these phenomena was that the earth had been projected into a

new orbit, which had the form of a very elongated ellipse.

Very slight, however, in comparison was the regard which these

astronomical wonders attracted on board the _Dobryna_. All interest

there was too much absorbed in terrestrial matters, and in ascertaining

what changes had taken place in the configuration of the earth itself,

to permit much attention to be paid to its erratic movements through

space.

The schooner kept bravely on her way, but well out to sea, at a distance

of two miles from land. There was good need of this precaution, for so

precipitous was the shore that a vessel driven upon it must inevitably

have gone to pieces; it did not offer a single harbor of refuge, but,

smooth and perpendicular as the walls of a fortress, it rose to a height

of two hundred, and occasionally of three hundred feet. The waves dashed

violently against its base. Upon the general substratum rested a massive

conglomerate, the crystallizations of which rose like a forest of

gigantic pyramids and obelisks.

But what struck the explorers more than anything was the appearance of

singular newness that pervaded the whole of the region. It all seemed

so recent in its formation that the atmosphere had had no opportunity of

producing its wonted effect in softening the hardness of its lines, in

rounding the sharpness of its angles, or in modifying the color of

its surface; its outline was clearly marked against the sky, and its

substance, smooth and polished as though fresh from a founder’s mold,

glittered with the metallic brilliancy that is characteristic of

pyrites. It seemed impossible to come to any other conclusion but

that the land before them, continent or island, had been upheaved by

subterranean forces above the surface of the sea, and that it was mainly

composed of the same metallic element as had characterized the dust so

frequently uplifted from the bottom.

The extreme nakedness of the entire tract was likewise very

extraordinary. Elsewhere, in various quarters of the globe, there may

be sterile rocks, but there are none so adamant as to be altogether

unfurrowed by the filaments engendered in the moist residuum of the

condensed vapor; elsewhere there may be barren steeps, but none so rigid

as not to afford some hold to vegetation, however low and elementary

may be its type; but here all was bare, and blank, and desolate--not a

symptom of vitality was visible.

Such being the condition of the adjacent land, it could hardly be a

matter of surprise that all the sea-birds, the albatross, the gull, the

sea-mew, sought continual refuge on the schooner; day and night they

perched fearlessly upon the yards, the report of a gun failing to

dislodge them, and when food of any sort was thrown upon the deck,

they would dart down and fight with eager voracity for the prize. Their

extreme avidity was recognized as a proof that any land where they could

obtain a sustenance must be far remote.

Onwards thus for several days the _Dobryna_ followed the contour of the

inhospitable coast, of which the features would occasionally change,

sometimes for two or three miles assuming the form of a simple arris,

sharply defined as though cut by a chisel, when suddenly the prismatic

lamellae soaring in rugged confusion would again recur; but all along

there was the same absence of beach or tract of sand to mark its base,

neither were there any of those shoals of rock that are ordinarily found

in shallow water. At rare intervals there were some narrow fissures,

but not a creek available for a ship to enter to replenish its supply of

water; and the wide roadsteads were unprotected and exposed to well-nigh

every point of the compass.

But after sailing two hundred and forty miles, the progress of the

_Dobryna_ was suddenly arrested. Lieutenant Procope, who had sedulously

inserted the outline of the newly revealed shore upon the maps,

announced that it had ceased to run east and west, and had taken a turn

due north, thus forming a barrier to their continuing their previous

direction. It was, of course, impossible to conjecture how far this

barrier extended; it coincided pretty nearly with the fourteenth

meridian of east longitude; and if it reached, as probably it did,

beyond Sicily to Italy, it was certain that the vast basin of the

Mediterranean, which had washed the shores alike of Europe, Asia, and

Africa, must have been reduced to about half its original area.

It was resolved to proceed upon the same plan as heretofore, following

the boundary of the land at a safe distance. Accordingly, the head of

the _Dobryna_ was pointed north, making straight, as it was presumed,

for the south of Europe. A hundred miles, or somewhat over, in that

direction, and it was to be anticipated she would come in sight of

Malta, if only that ancient island, the heritage in succession of

Phoenicians, Carthaginians, Sicilians, Romans, Vandals, Greeks,

Arabians, and the knights of Rhodes, should still be undestroyed.

But Malta, too, was gone; and when, upon the 14th, the sounding-line was

dropped upon its site, it was only with the same result so oftentimes

obtained before.

“The devastation is not limited to Africa,” observed the count.

“Assuredly not,” assented the lieutenant; adding, “and I confess I am

almost in despair whether we shall ever ascertain its limits. To what

quarter of Europe, if Europe still exists, do you propose that I should

now direct your course?”

“To Sicily, Italy, France!” ejaculated Servadac, eagerly,--“anywhere

where we can learn the truth of what has befallen us.”

“How if we are the sole survivors?” said the count, gravely.

Hector Servadac was silent; his own secret presentiment so thoroughly

coincided with the doubts expressed by the count, that he refrained from

saying another word.

The coast, without deviation, still tended towards the north. No

alternative, therefore, remained than to take a westerly course and to

attempt to reach the northern shores of the Mediterranean. On the 16th

the _Dobryna_ essayed to start upon her altered way, but it seemed as if

the elements had conspired to obstruct her progress. A furious tempest

arose; the wind beat dead in the direction of the coast, and the danger

incurred by a vessel of a tonnage so light was necessarily very great.

Lieutenant Procope was extremely uneasy. He took in all sail, struck

his topmasts, and resolved to rely entirely on his engine. But the peril

seemed only to increase. Enormous waves caught the schooner and carried

her up to their crests, whence again she was plunged deep into the

abysses that they left. The screw failed to keep its hold upon the

water, but continually revolved with useless speed in the vacant air;

and thus, although the steam was forced on to the extremest limit

consistent with safety, the vessel held her way with the utmost

difficulty, and recoiled before the hurricane.

Still, not a single resort for refuge did the inaccessible shore

present. Again and again the lieutenant asked himself what would become

of him and his comrades, even if they should survive the peril of

shipwreck, and gain a footing upon the cliff. What resources could

they expect to find upon that scene of desolation? What hope could they

entertain that any portion of the old continent still existed beyond

that dreary barrier?

It was a trying time, but throughout it all the crew behaved with

the greatest courage and composure; confident in the skill of their

commander, and in the stability of their ship, they performed their

duties with steadiness and unquestioning obedience.

But neither skill, nor courage, nor obedience could avail; all was in

vain. Despite the strain put upon her engine, the schooner, bare of

canvas (for not even the smallest stay-sail could have withstood the

violence of the storm), was drifting with terrific speed towards the

menacing precipices, which were only a. few short miles to leeward.

Fully alive to the hopelessness of their situation, the crew were all on

deck.

“All over with us, sir!” said Procope to the count. “I have done

everything that man could do; but our case is desperate. Nothing short

of a miracle can save us now. Within an hour we must go to pieces upon

yonder rocks.”

“Let us, then, commend ourselves to the providence of Him to Whom

nothing is impossible,” replied the count, in a calm, clear voice

that could be distinctly heard by all; and as he spoke, he reverently

uncovered, an example in which he was followed by all the rest.

The destruction of the vessel seeming thus inevitable, Lieutenant

Procope took the best measures he could to insure a few days’ supply

of food for any who might escape ashore. He ordered several cases of

provisions and kegs of water to be brought on deck, and saw that they

were securely lashed to some empty barrels, to make them float after the

ship had gone down.

Less and less grew the distance from the shore, but no creek, no inlet,

could be discerned in the towering wall of cliff, which seemed about to

topple over and involve them in annihilation. Except a change of wind

or, as Procope observed, a supernatural rifting of the rock, nothing

could bring deliverance now. But the wind did not veer, and in a few

minutes more the schooner was hardly three cables’ distance from the

fatal land. All were aware that their last moment had arrived. Servadac

and the count grasped each other’s hands for a long farewell; and,

tossed by the tremendous waves, the schooner was on the very point of

being hurled upon the cliff, when a ringing shout was heard. “Quick,

boys, quick! Hoist the jib, and right the tiller!”

Sudden and startling as the unexpected orders were, they were executed

as if by magic.

The lieutenant, who had shouted from the bow, rushed astern and took

the helm, and before anyone had time to speculate upon the object of his

maneuvers, he shouted again, “Look out! sharp! watch the sheets!”

An involuntary cry broke forth from all on board. But it was no cry

of terror. Right ahead was a narrow opening in the solid rock; it was

hardly forty feet wide. Whether it was a passage or no, it mattered

little; it was at least a refuge; and, driven by wind and wave, the

_Dobryna_, under the dexterous guidance of the lieutenant, dashed in

between its perpendicular walls.

Had she not immured herself in a perpetual prison?

CHAPTER XIII. A ROYAL SALUTE

“Then I take your bishop, major,” said Colonel Murphy, as he made a move

that he had taken since the previous evening to consider.

“I was afraid you would,” replied Major Oliphant, looking intently at

the chess-board.

Such was the way in which a long silence was broken on the morning of

the 17th of February by the old calendar.

Another day elapsed before another move was made. It was a protracted

game; it had, in fact, already lasted some months--the players being

so deliberate, and so fearful of taking a step without the most mature

consideration, that even now they were only making the twentieth move.

Both of them, moreover, were rigid disciples of the renowned Philidor,

who pronounces that to play the pawns well is “the soul of chess”; and,

accordingly, not one pawn had been sacrificed without a most vigorous

defense.

The men who were thus beguiling their leisure were two officers in the

British army--Colonel Heneage Finch Murphy and Major Sir John Temple

Oliphant. Remarkably similar in personal appearance, they were hardly

less so in personal character. Both of them were about forty years of

age; both of them were tall and fair, with bushy whiskers and mustaches;

both of them were phlegmatic in temperament, and both much addicted to

the wearing of their uniforms. They were proud of their nationality,

and exhibited a manifest dislike, verging upon contempt, of everything

foreign. Probably they would have felt no surprise if they had been

told that Anglo-Saxons were fashioned out of some specific clay, the

properties of which surpassed the investigation of chemical analysis.

Without any intentional disparagement they might, in a certain way,

be compared to two scarecrows which, though perfectly harmless in

themselves, inspire some measure of respect, and are excellently adapted

to protect the territory intrusted to their guardianship.

English-like, the two officers had made themselves thoroughly at home in

the station abroad in which it had been their lot to be quartered. The

faculty of colonization seems to be indigenous to the native character;

once let an Englishman plant his national standard on the surface of the

moon, and it would not be long before a colony was established round it.

The officers had a servant, named Kirke, and a company of ten soldiers

of the line. This party of thirteen men were apparently the sole

survivors of an overwhelming catastrophe, which on the 1st of January

had transformed an enormous rock, garrisoned with well-nigh two thousand

troops, into an insignificant island far out to sea. But although the

transformation had been so marvelous, it cannot be said that either

Colonel Murphy or Major Oliphant had made much demonstration of

astonishment.

“This is all very peculiar, Sir John,” observed the colonel.

“Yes, colonel; very peculiar,” replied the major.

“England will be sure to send for us,” said one officer.

“No doubt she will,” answered the other.

Accordingly, they came to the mutual resolution that they would “stick

to their post.”

To say the truth, it would have been a difficult matter for the gallant

officers to do otherwise; they had but one small boat; therefore, it was

well that they made a virtue of necessity, and resigned themselves to

patient expectation of the British ship which, in due time, would bring

relief.

They had no fear of starvation. Their island was mined with

subterranean stores, more than ample for thirteen men--nay, for thirteen

Englishmen--for the next five years at least. Preserved meat, ale,

brandy--all were in abundance; consequently, as the men expressed it,

they were in this respect “all right.”

Of course, the physical changes that had taken place had attracted the

notice both of officers and men. But the reversed position of east and

west, the diminution of the force of gravity, the altered rotation of

the earth, and her projection upon a new orbit, were all things that

gave them little concern and no uneasiness; and when the colonel and the

major had replaced the pieces on the board which had been disturbed

by the convulsion, any surprise they might have felt at the chess-men

losing some portion of their weight was quite forgotten in the

satisfaction of seeing them retain their equilibrium.

One phenomenon, however, did not fail to make its due impression upon

the men; this was the diminution in the length of day and night. Three

days after the catastrophe, Corporal Pim, on behalf of himself and his

comrades, solicited a formal interview with the officers. The request

having been granted, Pim, with the nine soldiers, all punctiliously

wearing the regimental tunic of scarlet and trousers of invisible green,

presented themselves at the door of the colonel’s room, where he and

his brother-officer were continuing their game. Raising his hand

respectfully to his cap, which he wore poised jauntily over his right

ear, and scarcely held on by the strap below his under lip, the corporal

waited permission to speak.

After a lingering survey of the chess-board, the colonel slowly lifted

his eyes, and said with official dignity, “Well, men, what is it?”

“First of all, sir,” replied the corporal, “we want to speak to you

about our pay, and then we wish to have a word with the major about our

rations.”

“Say on, then,” said Colonel Murphy. “What is it about your pay?”

“Just this, sir; as the days are only half as long as they were, we

should like to know whether our pay is to be diminished in proportion.”

The colonel was taken somewhat aback, and did not reply immediately,

though by some significant nods towards the major, he indicated that he

thought the question very reasonable. After a few moments’ reflection,

he replied, “It must, I think, be allowed that your pay was calculated

from sunrise to sunrise; there was no specification of what the interval

should be. Your pay will continue as before. England can afford it.”

A buzz of approval burst involuntarily from all the men, but military

discipline and the respect due to their officers kept them in check from

any boisterous demonstration of their satisfaction.

“And now, corporal, what is your business with me?” asked Major

Oliphant.

“We want to know whether, as the days are only six hours long, we are to

have but two meals instead of four?”

The officers looked at each other, and by their glances agreed that the

corporal was a man of sound common sense.

“Eccentricities of nature,” said the major, “cannot interfere with

military regulations. It is true that there will be but an interval of

an hour and a half between them, but the rule stands good--four meals

a day. England is too rich to grudge her soldiers any of her soldiers’

due. Yes; four meals a day.”

“Hurrah!” shouted the soldiers, unable this time to keep their delight

within the bounds of military decorum; and, turning to the right-about,

they marched away, leaving the officers to renew the all-absorbing game.

However confident everyone upon the island might profess to be that

succor would be sent them from their native land--for Britain never

abandons any of her sons--it could not be disguised that that succor

was somewhat tardy in making its appearance. Many and various were the

conjectures to account for the delay. Perhaps England was engrossed

with domestic matters, or perhaps she was absorbed in diplomatic

difficulties; or perchance, more likely than all, Northern Europe had

received no tidings of the convulsion that had shattered the south. The

whole party throve remarkably well upon the liberal provisions of the

commissariat department, and if the officers failed to show the same

tendency to _embonpoint_ which was fast becoming characteristic of the

men, it was only because they deemed it due to their rank to curtail any

indulgences which might compromise the fit of their uniform.

On the whole, time passed indifferently well. An Englishman rarely

suffers from _ennui_, and then only in his own country, when required to

conform to what he calls “the humbug of society”; and the two officers,

with their similar tastes, ideas, and dispositions, got on together

admirably. It is not to be questioned that they were deeply affected by

a sense of regret for their lost comrades, and astounded beyond measure

at finding themselves the sole survivors of a garrison of 1,895 men,

but with true British pluck and self-control, they had done nothing

more than draw up a report that 1,882 names were missing from the

muster-roll.

The island itself, the sole surviving fragment of an enormous pile of

rock that had reared itself some 1,600 feet above the sea, was not,

strictly speaking, the only land that was visible; for about twelve

miles to the south there was another island, apparently the very

counterpart of what was now occupied by the Englishmen. It was

only natural that this should awaken some interest even in the most

imperturbable minds, and there was no doubt that the two officers,

during one of the rare intervals when they were not absorbed in their

game, had decided that it would be desirable at least to ascertain

whether the island was deserted, or whether it might not be occupied by

some others, like themselves, survivors from the general catastrophe.

Certain it is that one morning, when the weather was bright and calm,

they had embarked alone in the little boat, and been absent for seven or

eight hours. Not even to Corporal Pim did they communicate the object

of their excursion, nor say one syllable as to its result, and it could

only be inferred from their manner that they were quite satisfied with

what they had seen; and very shortly afterwards Major Oliphant was

observed to draw up a lengthy document, which was no sooner finished

than it was formally signed and sealed with the seal of the 33rd

Regiment. It was directed:

_To the First Lord of the Admiralty,

London,_

and kept in readiness for transmission by the first ship that should

hail in sight. But time elapsed, and here was the 18th of February

without an opportunity having been afforded for any communication with

the British Government.

At breakfast that morning, the colonel observed to the major that he was

under the most decided impression that the 18th of February was a royal

anniversary; and he went on to say that, although he had received no

definite instructions on the subject, he did not think that the peculiar

circumstances under which they found themselves should prevent them from

giving the day its due military honors.

The major quite concurred; and it was mutually agreed that the occasion

must be honored by a bumper of port, and by a royal salute. Corporal Pim

must be sent for. The corporal soon made his appearance, smacking his

lips, having, by a ready intuition, found a pretext for a double morning

ration of spirits.

“The 18th of February, you know, Pim,” said the colonel; “we must have a

salute of twenty-one guns.”

“Very good,” replied Pim, a man of few words.

“And take care that your fellows don’t get their arms and legs blown

off,” added the officer.

“Very good, sir,” said the corporal; and he made his salute and

withdrew.

Of all the bombs, howitzers, and various species of artillery with which

the fortress had been crowded, one solitary piece remained. This was a

cumbrous muzzle-loader of 9-inch caliber, and, in default of the smaller

ordnance generally employed for the purpose, had to be brought into

requisition for the royal salute.

A sufficient number of charges having been provided, the corporal

brought his men to the reduct, whence the gun’s mouth projected over

a sloping embrasure. The two officers, in cocked hats and full staff

uniform, attended to take charge of the proceedings. The gun was

maneuvered in strict accordance with the rules of “The Artilleryman’s

Manual,” and the firing commenced.

Not unmindful of the warning he had received, the corporal was most

careful between each discharge to see that every vestige of fire was

extinguished, so as to prevent an untimely explosion while the men were

reloading; and accidents, such as so frequently mar public rejoicings,

were all happily avoided.

Much to the chagrin of both Colonel Murphy and Major Oliphant, the

effect of the salute fell altogether short of their anticipations. The

weight of the atmosphere was so reduced that there was comparatively

little resistance to the explosive force of the gases, liberated at the

cannon’s mouth, and there was consequently none of the reverberation,

like rolling thunder, that ordinarily follows the discharge of heavy

artillery.

Twenty times had the gun been fired, and it was on the point of being

loaded for the last time, when the colonel laid his hand upon the arm of

the man who had the ramrod. “Stop!” he said; “we will have a ball this

time. Let us put the range of the piece to the test.”

“A good idea!” replied the major. “Corporal, you hear the orders.”

In quick time an artillery-wagon was on the spot, and the men lifted

out a full-sized shot, weighing 200 lbs., which, under ordinary

circumstances, the cannon would carry about four miles. It was proposed,

by means of telescopes, to note the place where the ball first touched

the water, and thus to obtain an approximation sufficiently accurate as

to the true range.

Having been duly charged with powder and ball, the gun was raised to an

angle of something under 45 degrees, so as to allow proper development

to the curve that the projectile would make, and, at a signal from the

major, the light was applied to the priming.

“Heavens!” “By all that’s good!” exclaimed both officers in one breath,

as, standing open-mouthed, they hardly knew whether they were to believe

the evidence of their own senses. “Is it possible?”

The diminution of the force of attraction at the earth’s surface was so

considerable that the ball had sped beyond the horizon.

“Incredible!” ejaculated the colonel.

“Incredible!” echoed the major.

“Six miles at least!” observed the one.

“Ay, more than that!” replied the other.

Awhile, they gazed at the sea and at each other in mute amazement. But

in the midst of their perplexity, what sound was that which startled

them? Was it mere fancy? Was it the reverberation of the cannon still

booming in their ears? Or was it not truly the report of another and

a distant gun in answer to their own? Attentively and eagerly they

listened. Twice, thrice did the sound repeat itself. It was quite

distinct. There could be no mistake.

“I told you so,” cried the colonel, triumphantly. “I knew our country

would not forsake us; it is an English ship, no doubt.”

In half an hour two masts were visible above the horizon. “See! Was

I not right? Our country was sure to send to our relief. Here is the

ship.”

“Yes,” replied the major; “she responded to our gun.”

“It is to be hoped,” muttered the corporal, “that our ball has done her

no damage.”

Before long the hull was full in sight. A long trail of smoke betokened

her to be a steamer; and very soon, by the aid of the glass, it could be

ascertained that she was a schooner-yacht, and making straight for the

island. A flag at her mast-head fluttered in the breeze, and towards

this the two officers, with the keenest attention, respectively adjusted

their focus.

Simultaneously the two telescopes were lowered. The colonel and the

major stared at each other in blank astonishment. “Russian!” they

gasped.

And true it was that the flag that floated at the head of yonder mast

was the blue cross of Russia.

CHAPTER XIV. SENSITIVE NATIONALITY

When the schooner had approached the island, the Englishmen were able

to make out the name “_Dobryna_” painted on the aft-board. A sinuous

irregularity of the coast had formed a kind of cove, which, though

hardly spacious enough for a few fishing-smacks, would afford the yacht

a temporary anchorage, so long as the wind did not blow violently from

either west or south. Into this cove the _Dobryna_ was duly signaled,

and as soon as she was safely moored, she lowered her four-oar, and

Count Timascheff and Captain Servadac made their way at once to land.

Colonel Heneage Finch Murphy and Major Sir John Temple Oliphant stood,

grave and prim, formally awaiting the arrival of their visitors. Captain

Servadac, with the uncontrolled vivacity natural to a Frenchman, was the

first to speak.

“A joyful sight, gentlemen!” he exclaimed. “It will give us unbounded

pleasure to shake hands again with some of our fellow-creatures. You, no

doubt, have escaped the same disaster as ourselves.”

But the English officers, neither by word nor gesture, made the

slightest acknowledgment of this familiar greeting.

“What news can you give us of France, England, or Russia?” continued

Servadac, perfectly unconscious of the stolid rigidity with which his

advances were received. “We are anxious to hear anything you can tell

us. Have you had communications with Europe? Have you--”

“To whom have we the honor of speaking?” at last interposed Colonel

Murphy, in the coldest and most measured tone, and drawing himself up to

his full height.

“Ah! how stupid! I forgot,” said Servadac, with the slightest possible

shrug of the shoulders; “we have not been introduced.”

Then, with a wave of his hand towards his companion, who meanwhile had

exhibited a reserve hardly less than that of the British officers, he

said:

“Allow me to introduce you to Count Wassili Timascheff.”

“Major Sir John Temple Oliphant,” replied the colonel.

The Russian and the Englishman mutually exchanged the stiffest of bows.

“I have the pleasure of introducing Captain Servadac,” said the count in

his turn.

“And this is Colonel Heneage Finch Murphy,” was the major’s grave

rejoinder.

More bows were interchanged and the ceremony brought to its due

conclusion. It need hardly be said that the conversation had been

carried on in French, a language which is generally known both by

Russians and Englishmen--a circumstance that is probably in some measure

to be accounted for by the refusal of Frenchmen to learn either Russian

or English.

The formal preliminaries of etiquette being thus complete, there was no

longer any obstacle to a freer intercourse. The colonel, signing to

his guests to follow, led the way to the apartment occupied jointly by

himself and the major, which, although only a kind of casemate hollowed

in the rock, nevertheless wore a general air of comfort. Major

Oliphant accompanied them, and all four having taken their seats, the

conversation was commenced.

Irritated and disgusted at all the cold formalities, Hector Servadac

resolved to leave all the talking to the count; and he, quite aware that

the Englishmen would adhere to the fiction that they could be supposed

to know nothing that had transpired previous to the introduction felt

himself obliged to recapitulate matters from the very beginning.

“You must be aware, gentlemen,” began the count, “that a most singular

catastrophe occurred on the 1st of January last. Its cause, its limits

we have utterly failed to discover, but from the appearance of the

island on which we find you here, you have evidently experienced its

devastating consequences.”

The Englishmen, in silence, bowed assent.

“Captain Servadac, who accompanies me,” continued the count, “has been

most severely tried by the disaster. Engaged as he was in an important

mission as a staff-officer in Algeria--”

“A French colony, I believe,” interposed Major Oliphant, half shutting

his eyes with an expression of supreme indifference.

Servadac was on the point of making some cutting retort, but Count

Timascheff, without allowing the interruption to be noticed, calmly

continued his narrative:

“It was near the mouth of the Shelif that a portion of Africa, on that

eventful night, was transformed into an island which alone survived; the

rest of the vast continent disappeared as completely as if it had never

been.”

The announcement seemed by no means startling to the phlegmatic colonel.

“Indeed!” was all he said.

“And where were you?” asked Major Oliphant.

“I was out at sea, cruising in my yacht; hard by; and I look upon it as

a miracle, and nothing less, that I and my crew escaped with our lives.”

“I congratulate you on your luck,” replied the major.

The count resumed: “It was about a month after the great disruption

that I was sailing--my engine having sustained some damage in the

shock--along the Algerian coast, and had the pleasure of meeting with

my previous acquaintance, Captain Servadac, who was resident upon the

island with his orderly, Ben Zoof.”

“Ben who?” inquired the major.

“Zoof! Ben Zoof!” ejaculated Servadac, who could scarcely shout loud

enough to relieve his pent-up feelings.

Ignoring this ebullition of the captain’s spleen, the count went on to

say: “Captain Servadac was naturally most anxious to get what news he

could. Accordingly, he left his servant on the island in charge of his

horses, and came on board the _Dobryna_ with me. We were quite at a loss

to know where we should steer, but decided to direct our course to

what previously had been the east, in order that we might, if possible,

discover the colony of Algeria; but of Algeria not a trace remained.”

The colonel curled his lip, insinuating only too plainly that to him it

was by no means surprising that a French colony should be wanting in the

element of stability. Servadac observed the supercilious look, and half

rose to his feet, but, smothering his resentment, took his seat again

without speaking.

“The devastation, gentlemen,” said the count, who persistently refused

to recognize the Frenchman’s irritation, “everywhere was terrible and

complete. Not only was Algeria lost, but there was no trace of Tunis,

except one solitary rock, which was crowned by an ancient tomb of one of

the kings of France--”

“Louis the Ninth, I presume,” observed the colonel.

“Saint Louis,” blurted out Servadac, savagely.

Colonel Murphy slightly smiled.

Proof against all interruption, Count Timascheff, as if he had not heard

it, went on without pausing. He related how the schooner had pushed her

way onwards to the south, and had reached the Gulf of Cabes; and how

she had ascertained for certain that the Sahara Sea had no longer an

existence.

The smile of disdain again crossed the colonel’s face; he could not

conceal his opinion that such a destiny for the work of a Frenchman

could be no matter of surprise.

“Our next discovery,” continued the count, “was that a new coast

had been upheaved right along in front of the coast of Tripoli, the

geological formation of which was altogether strange, and which extended

to the north as far as the proper place of Malta.”

“And Malta,” cried Servadac, unable to control himself any longer;

“Malta--town, forts, soldiers, governor, and all--has vanished just like

Algeria.”

For a moment a cloud rested upon the colonel’s brow, only to give place

to an expression of decided incredulity.

“The statement seems highly incredible,” he said.

“Incredible?” repeated Servadac. “Why is it that you doubt my word?”

The captain’s rising wrath did not prevent the colonel from replying

coolly, “Because Malta belongs to England.”

“I can’t help that,” answered Servadac, sharply; “it has gone just as

utterly as if it had belonged to China.”

Colonel Murphy turned deliberately away from Servadac, and appealed to

the count: “Do you not think you may have made some error, count, in

reckoning the bearings of your yacht?”

“No, colonel, I am quite certain of my reckonings; and not only can

I testify that Malta has disappeared, but I can affirm that a large

section of the Mediterranean has been closed in by a new continent.

After the most anxious investigation, we could discover only one narrow

opening in all the coast, and it is by following that little channel

that we have made our way hither. England, I fear, has suffered

grievously by the late catastrophe. Not only has Malta been entirely

lost, but of the Ionian Islands that were under England’s protection,

there seems to be but little left.”

“Ay, you may depend upon it,” said Servadac, breaking in upon the

conversation petulantly, “your grand resident lord high commissioner has

not much to congratulate himself about in the condition of Corfu.”

The Englishmen were mystified.

“Corfu, did you say?” asked Major Oliphant.

“Yes, Corfu; I said Corfu,” replied Servadac, with a sort of malicious

triumph.

The officers were speechless with astonishment.

The silence of bewilderment was broken at length by Count Timascheff

making inquiry whether nothing had been heard from England, either by

telegraph or by any passing ship.

“No,” said the colonel; “not a ship has passed; and the cable is

broken.”

“But do not the Italian telegraphs assist you?” continued the count.

“Italian! I do not comprehend you. You must mean the Spanish, surely.”

“How?” demanded Timascheff.

“Confound it!” cried the impatient Servadac. “What matters whether it be

Spanish or Italian? Tell us, have you had no communication at all from

Europe?--no news of any sort from London?”

“Hitherto, none whatever,” replied the colonel; adding with a stately

emphasis, “but we shall be sure to have tidings from England before

long.”

“Whether England is still in existence or not, I suppose,” said

Servadac, in a tone of irony.

The Englishmen started simultaneously to their feet.

“England in existence?” the colonel cried. “England! Ten times more

probable that France--”

“France!” shouted Servadac in a passion. “France is not an island that

can be submerged; France is an integral portion of a solid continent.

France, at least, is safe.”

A scene appeared inevitable, and Count Timascheff’s efforts to

conciliate the excited parties were of small avail.

“You are at home here,” said Servadac, with as much calmness as he

could command; “it will be advisable, I think, for this discussion to

be carried on in the open air.” And hurriedly he left the room. Followed

immediately by the others, he led the way to a level piece of ground,

which he considered he might fairly claim as neutral territory.

“Now, gentlemen,” he began haughtily, “permit me to represent that,

in spite of any loss France may have sustained in the fate of Algeria,

France is ready to answer any provocation that affects her honor. Here I

am the representative of my country, and here, on neutral ground--”

“Neutral ground?” objected Colonel Murphy; “I beg your pardon. This,

Captain Servadac, is English territory. Do you not see the English

flag?” and, as he spoke, he pointed with national pride to the British

standard floating over the top of the island.

“Pshaw!” cried Servadac, with a contemptuous sneer; “that flag, you

know, has been hoisted but a few short weeks.”

“That flag has floated where it is for ages,” asserted the colonel.

“An imposture!” shouted Servadac, as he stamped with rage.

Recovering his composure in a degree, he continued: “Can you suppose

that I am not aware that this island on which we find you is what

remains of the Ionian representative republic, over which you English

exercise the right of protection, but have no claim of government?”

The colonel and the major looked at each other in amazement.

Although Count Timascheff secretly sympathized with Servadac, he had

carefully refrained from taking part in the dispute; but he was on

the point of interfering, when the colonel, in a greatly subdued tone,

begged to be allowed to speak.

“I begin to apprehend,” he said, “that you must be la-boring under some

strange mistake. There is no room for questioning that the territory

here is England’s--England’s by right of conquest; ceded to England

by the Treaty of Utrecht. Three times, indeed--in 1727, 1779, and

1792--France and Spain have disputed our title, but always to no

purpose. You are, I assure you, at the present moment, as much on

English soil as if you were in London, in the middle of Trafalgar

Square.”

It was now the turn of the captain and the count to look surprised. “Are

we not, then, in Corfu?” they asked.

“You are at Gibraltar,” replied the colonel.

Gibraltar! The word fell like a thunderclap upon their ears. Gibraltar!

the western extremity of the Mediterranean! Why, had they not been

sailing persistently to the east? Could they be wrong in imagining that

they had reached the Ionian Islands? What new mystery was this?

Count Timascheff was about to proceed with a more rigorous

investigation, when the attention of all was arrested by a loud outcry.

Turning round, they saw that the crew of the _Dobryna_ was in hot

dispute with the English soldiers. A general altercation had arisen

from a disagreement between the sailor Panofka and Corporal Pim. It had

transpired that the cannon-ball fired in experiment from the island

had not only damaged one of the spars of the schooner, but had broken

Panofka’s pipe, and, moreover, had just grazed his nose, which, for a

Russian’s, was unusually long. The discussion over this mishap led to

mutual recriminations, till the sailors had almost come to blows with

the garrison.

Servadac was just in the mood to take Panofka’s part, which drew from

Major Oliphant the remark that England could not be held responsible for

any accidental injury done by her cannon, and if the Russian’s long nose

came in the way of the ball, the Russian must submit to the mischance.

This was too much for Count Timascheff, and having poured out a torrent

of angry invective against the English officers, he ordered his crew to

embark immediately.

“We shall meet again,” said Servadac, as they pushed off from shore.

“Whenever you please,” was the cool reply.

The geographical mystery haunted the minds of both the count and the

captain, and they felt they could never rest till they had ascertained

what had become of their respective countries. They were glad to be on

board again, that they might résumé their voyage of investigation,

and in two hours were out of sight of the sole remaining fragment of

Gibraltar.

CHAPTER XV. AN ENIGMA FROM THE SEA

Lieutenant Procope had been left on board in charge of the _Dobryna_,

and on resuming the voyage it was a task of some difficulty to make him

understand the fact that had just come to light. Some hours were spent

in discussion and in attempting to penetrate the mysteries of the

situation.

There were certain things of which they were perfectly certain. They

could be under no misapprehension as to the distance they had positively

sailed from Gourbi Island towards the east before their further progress

was arrested by the unknown shore; as nearly as possible that was

fifteen degrees; the length of the narrow strait by which they had made

their way across that land to regain the open sea was about three miles

and a half; thence onward to the island, which they had been assured,

on evidence that they could not disbelieve, to be upon the site of

Gibraltar, was four degrees; while from Gibraltar to Gourbi Island was

seven degrees or but little more. What was it altogether? Was it not

less than thirty degrees? In that latitude, the degree of longitude

represents eight and forty miles. What, then, did it all amount to?

Indubitably, to less than 1,400 miles. So brief a voyage would bring the

_Dobryna_ once again to her starting-point, or, in other words, would

enable her to complete the circumnavigation of the globe. How changed

the condition of things! Previously, to sail from Malta to Gibraltar by

an eastward course would have involved the passage of the Suez Canal,

the Red Sea, the Indian Ocean, the Pacific, the Atlantic; but what had

happened now? Why, Gibraltar had been reached as if it had been just at

Corfu, and some three hundred and thirty degrees of the earth’s circuit

had vanished utterly.

After allowing for a certain margin of miscalculation, the main fact

remained undeniable; and the necessary inference that Lieutenant Procope

drew from the round of the earth being completed in 1,400 miles, was

that the earth’s diameter had been reduced by about fifteen sixteenths

of its length.

“If that be so,” observed the count, “it accounts for some of the

strange phenomena we witness. If our world has become so insignificant a

spheroid, not only has its gravity diminished, but its rotary speed has

been accelerated; and this affords an adequate explanation of our days

and nights being thus curtailed. But how about the new orbit in which we

are moving?”

He paused and pondered, and then looked at Procope as though awaiting

from him some further elucidation of the difficulty. The lieutenant

hesitated. When, in a few moments, he began to speak, Servadac smiled

intelligently, anticipating the answer he was about to hear.

“My conjecture is,” said Procope, “that a fragment of considerable

magnitude has been detached from the earth; that it has carried with

it an envelope of the earth’s atmosphere, and that it is now traveling

through the solar system in an orbit that does not correspond at all

with the proper orbit of the earth.”

The hypothesis was plausible; but what a multitude of bewildering

speculations it entailed! If, in truth, a certain mass had been broken

off from the terrestrial sphere, whither would it wend its way? What

would be the measure of the eccentricity of its path? What would be its

period round the sun? Might it not, like a comet, be carried away into

the vast infinity of space? or, on the other hand, might it not be

attracted to the great central source of light and heat, and be absorbed

in it? Did its orbit correspond with the orbit of the ecliptic? and was

there no chance of its ever uniting again with the globe, from which it

had been torn off by so sudden and violent a disruption?

A thoughtful silence fell upon them all, which Servadac was the first

to break. “Lieutenant,” he said, “your explanation is ingenious, and

accounts for many appearances; but it seems to me that in one point it

fails.”

“How so?” replied Procope. “To my mind the theory meets all objections.”

“I think not,” Servadac answered. “In one point, at least, it appears to

me to break down completely.”

“What is that?” asked the lieutenant.

“Stop a moment,” said the captain. “Let us see that we understand each

other right. Unless I mistake you, your hypothesis is that a fragment of

the earth, comprising the Mediterranean and its shores from Gibraltar

to Malta, has been developed into a new asteroid, which is started on an

independent orbit in the solar regions. Is not that your meaning?”

“Precisely so,” the lieutenant acquiesced.

“Well, then,” continued Servadac, “it seems to me to be at fault in this

respect: it fails, and fails completely, to account for the geological

character of the land that we have found now encompassing this sea. Why,

if the new land is a fragment of the old--why does it not retain its old

formation? What has become of the granite and the calcareous deposits?

How is it that these should all be changed into a mineral concrete with

which we have no acquaintance?”

No doubt, it was a serious objection; for, however likely it might be

that a mass of the earth on being detached would be eccentric in its

movements, there was no probable reason to be alleged why the material

of its substance should undergo so complete a change. There was nothing

to account for the fertile shores, rich in vegetation, being transformed

into rocks arid and barren beyond precedent.

The lieutenant felt the difficulty, and owned himself unprepared to give

at once an adequate solution; nevertheless, he declined to renounce his

theory. He asserted that the arguments in favor of it carried conviction

to his mind, and that he entertained no doubt but that, in the course of

time, all apparently antagonistic circumstances would be explained so as

to become consistent with the view he took. He was careful, however,

to make it understood that with respect to the original cause of

the disruption he had no theory to offer; and although he knew what

expansion might be the result of subterranean forces, he did not venture

to say that he considered it sufficient to produce so tremendous an

effect. The origin of the catastrophe was a problem still to be solved.

“Ah! well,” said Servadac, “I don’t know that it matters much where our

new little planet comes from, or what it is made of, if only it carries

France along with it.”

“And Russia,” added the count.

“And Russia, of course,” said Servadac, with a polite bow.

There was, however, not much room for this sanguine expectation, for if

a new asteroid had thus been brought into existence, it must be a sphere

of extremely limited dimensions, and there could be little chance that

it embraced more than the merest fraction of either France or Russia. As

to England, the total cessation of all telegraphic communication between

her shores and Gibraltar was a virtual proof that England was beyond its

compass.

And what was the true measurement of the new little world? At Gourbi

Island the days and nights were of equal length, and this seemed to

indicate that it was situated on the equator; hence the distance by

which the two poles stood apart would be half what had been reckoned

would be the distance completed by the _Dobryna_ in her circuit. That

distance had been already estimated to be something under 1,400 miles,

so that the Arctic Pole of their recently fashioned world must be about

350 miles to the north, and the Antarctic about 350 miles to the south

of the island. Compare these calculations with the map, and it is at

once apparent that the northernmost limit barely touched the coast of

Provence, while the southernmost reached to about lat. 20 degrees

N., and fell in the heart of the desert. The practical test of these

conclusions would be made by future investigation, but meanwhile

the fact appeared very much to strengthen the presumption that, if

Lieutenant Procope had not arrived at the whole truth, he had made a

considerable advance towards it.

The weather, ever since the storm that had driven the _Dobryna_ into the

creek, had been magnificent. The wind continued favorable, and now under

both steam and canvas, she made a rapid progress towards the north,

a direction in which she was free to go in consequence of the total

disappearance of the Spanish coast, from Gibraltar right away to

Alicante. Malaga, Almeria, Cape Gata, Carthagena. Cape Palos--all were

gone. The sea was rolling over the southern extent of the peninsula, so

that the yacht advanced to the latitude of Seville before it sighted any

land at all, and then, not shores such as the shores of Andalusia, but

a bluff and precipitous cliff, in its geological features resembling

exactly the stern and barren rock that she had coasted beyond the site

of Malta. Here the sea made a decided indentation on the coast; it ran

up in an acute-angled triangle till its apex coincided with the very

spot upon which Madrid had stood. But as hitherto the sea had encroached

upon the land, the land in its turn now encroached upon the sea; for a

frowning headland stood out far into the basin of the Mediterranean,

and formed a promontory stretching out beyond the proper places of

the Balearic Isles. Curiosity was all alive. There was the intensest

interest awakened to determine whether no vestige could be traced of

Majorca, Minorca, or any of the group, and it was during a deviation

from the direct course for the purpose of a more thorough scrutiny, that

one of the sailors raised a thrill of general excitement by shouting, “A

bottle in the sea!”

Here, then, at length was a communication from the outer world. Surely

now they would find a document which would throw some light upon all the

mysteries that had happened? Had not the day now dawned that should set

their speculations all at rest?

It was the morning of the 21st of February. The count, the captain,

the lieutenant, everybody hurried to the forecastle; the schooner was

dexterously put about, and all was eager impatience until the supposed

bottle was hauled on deck.

It was not, however, a bottle; it proved to be a round leather

telescope-case, about a foot long, and the first thing to do before

investigating its contents was to make a careful examination of its

exterior. The lid was fastened on by wax, and so securely that it would

take a long immersion before any water could penetrate; there was no

maker’s name to be deciphered; but impressed very plainly with a seal on

the wax were the two initials “P. R.”

When the scrutiny of the outside was finished, the wax was removed and

the cover opened, and the lieutenant drew out a slip of ruled paper,

evidently torn from a common note-book. The paper had an inscription

written in four lines, which were remarkable for the profusion of notes

of admiration and interrogation with which they were interspersed:

“Gallia???

_Ab sole_, au 15 fev. 59,000,000 l.!

Chemin parcouru de janv. a fev. 82,000,000 l.!!

_Va bene! All right!!_ Parfait!!!”

There was a general sigh of disappointment. They turned the paper over

and over, and handed it from one to another. “What does it all mean?”

exclaimed the count.

“Something mysterious here!” said Servadac. “But yet,” he continued,

after a pause, “one thing is tolerably certain: on the 15th, six days

ago, someone was alive to write it.”

“Yes; I presume there is no reason to doubt the accuracy of the date,”

assented the count.

To this strange conglomeration of French, English, Italian, and Latin,

there was no signature attached; nor was there anything to give a

clue as to the locality in which it had been committed to the waves.

A telescope-case would probably be the property of some one on board

a ship; and the figures obviously referred to the astronomical wonders

that had been experienced.

To these general observations Captain Servadac objected that he thought

it unlikely that any one on board a ship would use a telescope-case for

this purpose, but would be sure to use a bottle as being more secure;

and, accordingly, he should rather be inclined to believe that the

message had been set afloat by some _savant_ left alone, perchance, upon

some isolated coast.

“But, however interesting it might be,” observed the count, “to know

the author of the lines, to us it is of far greater moment to ascertain

their meaning.”

And taking up the paper again, he said, “Perhaps we might analyze it

word by word, and from its detached parts gather some clue to its sense

as a whole.”

“What can be the meaning of all that cluster of interrogations after

Gallia?” asked Servadac.

Lieutenant Procope, who had hitherto not spoken, now broke his silence

by saying, “I beg, gentlemen, to submit my opinion that this document

goes very far to confirm my hypothesis that a fragment of the earth has

been precipitated into space.”

Captain Servadac hesitated, and then replied, “Even if it does, I do not

see how it accounts in the least for the geological character of the new

asteroid.”

“But will you allow me for one minute to take my supposition for

granted?” said Procope. “If a new little planet has been formed, as I

imagine, by disintegration from the old, I should conjecture that Gallia

is the name assigned to it by the writer of this paper. The very notes

of interrogation are significant that he was in doubt what he should

write.”

“You would presume that he was a Frenchman?” asked the count.

“I should think so,” replied the lieutenant.

“Not much doubt about that,” said Servadac; “it is all in French,

except a few scattered words of English, Latin, and Italian, inserted to

attract attention. He could not tell into whose hands the message would

fall first.”

“Well, then,” said Count Timascheff, “we seem to have found a name for

the new world we occupy.”

“But what I was going especially to observe,” continued the lieutenant,

“is that the distance, 59,000,000 leagues, represents precisely the

distance we ourselves were from the sun on the 15th. It was on that day

we crossed the orbit of Mars.”

“Yes, true,” assented the others.

“And the next line,” said the lieutenant, after reading it aloud,

“apparently registers the distance traversed by Gallia, the new little

planet, in her own orbit. Her speed, of course, we know by Kepler’s

laws, would vary according to her distance from the sun, and if she

were--as I conjecture from the temperature at that date--on the 15th of

January at her perihelion, she would be traveling twice as fast as the

earth, which moves at the rate of between 50,000 and 60,000 miles an

hour.”

“You think, then,” said Servadac, with a smile, “you have determined

the perihelion of our orbit; but how about the aphelion? Can you form a

judgment as to what distance we are likely to be carried?”

“You are asking too much,” remonstrated the count.

“I confess,” said the lieutenant, “that just at present I am not able to

clear away the uncertainty of the future; but I feel confident that by

careful observation at various points we shall arrive at conclusions

which not only will determine our path, but perhaps may clear up the

mystery about our geological structure.”

“Allow me to ask,” said Count Timascheff, “whether such a new asteroid

would not be subject to ordinary mechanical laws, and whether, once

started, it would not have an orbit that must be immutable?”

“Decidedly it would, so long as it was undisturbed by the attraction

of some considerable body; but we must recollect that, compared to the

great planets, Gallia must be almost infinitesimally small, and so might

be attracted by a force that is irresistible.”

“Altogether, then,” said Servadac, “we seem to have settled it to our

entire satisfaction that we must be the population of a young little

world called Gallia. Perhaps some day we may have the honor of being

registered among the minor planets.”

“No chance of that,” quickly rejoined Lieutenant Procope. “Those minor

planets all are known to rotate in a narrow zone between the orbits of

Mars and Jupiter; in their perihelia they cannot approximate the sun as

we have done; we shall not be classed with them.”

“Our lack of instruments,” said the count, “is much to be deplored; it

baffles our investigations in every way.”

“Ah, never mind! Keep up your courage, count!” said Servadac, cheerily.

And Lieutenant Procope renewed his assurances that he entertained good

hopes that every perplexity would soon be solved.

“I suppose,” remarked the count, “that we cannot attribute much

importance to the last line: _‘Va bene! All right!!_ Parfait!!!’”

The captain answered, “At least, it shows that whoever wrote it had no

murmuring or complaint to make, but was quite content with the new order

of things.”

CHAPTER XVI. THE RESIDUUM OF A CONTINENT

Almost unconsciously, the voyagers in the _Dobryna_ fell into the habit

of using Gallia as the name of the new world in which they became aware

they must be making an extraordinary excursion through the realms

of space. Nothing, however, was allowed to divert them from their

ostensible object of making a survey of the coast of the Mediterranean,

and accordingly they persevered in following that singular boundary

which had revealed itself to their extreme astonishment.

Having rounded the great promontory that had barred her farther progress

to the north, the schooner skirted its upper edge. A few more leagues

and they ought to be abreast of the shores of France. Yes, of France.

But who shall describe the feelings of Hector Servadac when, instead of

the charming outline of his native land, he beheld nothing but a solid

boundary of savage rock? Who shall paint the look of consternation with

which he gazed upon the stony rampart--rising perpendicularly for a

thousand feet--that had replaced the shores of the smiling south? Who

shall reveal the burning anxiety with which he throbbed to see beyond

that cruel wall?

But there seemed no hope. Onwards and onwards the yacht made her way,

and still no sign of France. It might have been supposed that Servadac’s

previous experiences would have prepared him for the discovery that the

catastrophe which had overwhelmed other sites had brought destruction

to his own country as well. But he had failed to realize how it might

extend to France; and when now he was obliged with his own eyes to

witness the waves of ocean rolling over what once had been the lovely

shores of Provence, he was well-nigh frantic with desperation.

“Am I to believe that Gourbi Island, that little shred of Algeria,

constitutes all that is left of our glorious France? No, no; it cannot

be. Not yet have we reached the pole of our new world. There is--there

must be--something more behind that frowning rock. Oh, that for a moment

we could scale its towering height and look beyond! By Heaven, I adjure

you, let us disembark, and mount the summit and explore! France lies

beyond.”

Disembarkation, however, was an utter impossibility. There was no

semblance of a creek in which the _Dobryna_ could find an anchorage.

There was no outlying ridge on which a footing could be gained. The

precipice was perpendicular as a wall, its topmost height crowned with

the same conglomerate of crystallized lamellae that had all along been

so pronounced a feature.

With her steam at high pressure, the yacht made rapid progress towards

the east. The weather remained perfectly fine, the temperature

became gradually cooler, so that there was little prospect of vapors

accumulating in the atmosphere; and nothing more than a few cirri,

almost transparent, veiled here and there the clear azure of the sky.

Throughout the day the pale rays of the sun, apparently lessened in its

magnitude, cast only faint and somewhat uncertain shadows; but at night

the stars shone with surpassing brilliancy. Of the planets, some, it was

observed, seemed to be fading away in remote distance. This was the case

with Mars, Venus, and that unknown orb which was moving in the orbit of

the minor planets; but Jupiter, on the other hand, had assumed splendid

proportions; Saturn was superb in its luster, and Uranus, which hitherto

had been imperceptible without a telescope was pointed out by

Lieutenant Procope, plainly visible to the naked eye. The inference was

irresistible that Gallia was receding from the sun, and traveling far

away across the planetary regions.

On the 24th of February, after following the sinuous course of what

before the date of the convulsion had been the coast line of the

department of Var, and after a fruitless search for Hyeres, the

peninsula of St. Tropez, the Lerius Islands, and the gulfs of Cannes and

Jouar, the _Dobryna_ arrived upon the site of the Cape of Antibes.

Here, quite unexpectedly, the explorers made the discovery that the

massive wall of cliff had been rent from the top to the bottom by a

narrow rift, like the dry bed of a mountain torrent, and at the base of

the opening, level with the sea, was a little strand upon which there

was just space enough for their boat to be hauled up.

“Joy! joy!” shouted Servadac, half beside himself with ecstasy; “we can

land at last!”

Count Timascheff and the lieutenant were scarcely less impatient than

the captain, and little needed his urgent and repeated solicitations:

“Come on! Quick! Come on! no time to lose!”

It was half-past seven in the morning, when they set their foot upon

this untried land. The bit of strand was only a few square yards in

area, quite a narrow strip. Upon it might have been recognized

some fragments of that agglutination of yellow limestone which is

characteristic of the coast of Provence. But the whole party was far

too eager to wait and examine these remnants of the ancient shore; they

hurried on to scale the heights.

The narrow ravine was not only perfectly dry, but manifestly had never

been the bed of any mountain torrent. The rocks that rested at the

bottom--just as those which formed its sides--were of the same lamellous

formation as the entire coast, and had not hitherto been subject to the

disaggregation which the lapse of time never fails to work. A skilled

geologist would probably have been able to assign them their proper

scientific classification, but neither Servadac, Timascheff, nor

the lieutenant could pretend to any acquaintance with their specific

character.

Although, however, the bottom of the chasm had never as yet been the

channel of a stream, indications were not wanting that at some future

time it would be the natural outlet of accumulated waters; for already,

in many places, thin layers of snow were glittering upon the surface of

the fractured rocks, and the higher the elevation that was gained, the

more these layers were found to increase in area and in depth.

“Here is a trace of fresh water, the first that Gallia has exhibited,”

said the count to his companions, as they toiled up the precipitous

path.

“And probably,” replied the lieutenant, “as we ascend we shall find not

only snow but ice. We must suppose this Gallia of ours to be a sphere,

and if it is so, we must now be very close to her Arctic regions; it is

true that her axis is not so much inclined as to prolong day and night

as at the poles of the earth, but the rays of the sun must reach us here

only very obliquely, and the cold, in all likelihood, will be intense.”

“So cold, do you think,” asked Servadac, “that animal life must be

extinct?”

“I do not say that, captain,” answered the lieutenant; “for, however

far our little world may be removed from the sun, I do not see why its

temperature should fall below what prevails in those outlying regions

beyond our system where sky and air are not.” “And what temperature may

that be?” inquired the captain with a shudder.

“Fourier estimates that even in those vast unfathomable tracts, the

temperature never descends lower than 60 degrees,” said Procope.

“Sixty! Sixty degrees below zero!” cried the count. “Why, there’s not a

Russian could endure it!”

“I beg your pardon, count. It is placed on record that the English

_have_ survived it, or something quite approximate, upon their Arctic

expeditions. When Captain Parry was on Melville Island, he knew the

thermometer to fall to 56 degrees,” said Procope.

As the explorers advanced, they seemed glad to pause from time to time,

that they might recover their breath; for the air, becoming more and

more rarefied, made respiration somewhat difficult and the ascent

fatiguing. Before they had reached an altitude of 600 feet they noticed

a sensible diminution of the temperature; but neither cold nor fatigue

deterred them, and they were resolved to persevere. Fortunately, the

deep striae or furrows in the surface of the rocks that made the bottom

of the ravine in some degree facilitated their progress, but it was not

until they had been toiling up for two hours more that they succeeded in

reaching the summit of the cliff.

Eagerly and anxiously did they look around. To the south there was

nothing but the sea they had traversed; to the north, nothing but one

drear, inhospitable stretch.

Servadac could not suppress a cry of dismay. Where was his beloved

France? Had he gained this arduous height only to behold the rocks

carpeted with ice and snow, and reaching interminably to the far-off

horizon? His heart sank within him.

The whole region appeared to consist of nothing but the same strange,

uniform mineral conglomerate, crystallized into regular hexagonal

prisms. But whatever was its geological character, it was only too

evident that it had entirely replaced the former soil, so that not a

vestige of the old continent of Europe could be discerned. The

lovely scenery of Provence, with the grace of its rich and undulating

landscape; its gardens of citrons and oranges rising tier upon tier

from the deep red soil--all, all had vanished. Of the vegetable kingdom,

there was not a single representative; the most meager of Arctic plants,

the most insignificant of lichens, could obtain no hold upon that stony

waste. Nor did the animal world assert the feeblest sway. The mineral

kingdom reigned supreme.

Captain Servadac’s deep dejection was in strange contrast to his general

hilarity. Silent and tearful, he stood upon an ice-bound rock, straining

his eyes across the boundless vista of the mysterious territory. “It

cannot be!” he exclaimed. “We must somehow have mistaken our bearings.

True, we have encountered this barrier; but France is there beyond! Yes,

France is _there!_ Come, count, come! By all that’s pitiful, I entreat

you, come and explore the farthest verge of the ice-bound track!”

He pushed onwards along the rugged surface of the rock, but had not

proceeded far before he came to a sudden pause. His foot had come in

contact with something hard beneath the snow, and, stooping down, he

picked up a little block of stony substance, which the first glance

revealed to be of a geological character altogether alien to the

universal rocks around. It proved to be a fragment of dis-colored

marble, on which several letters were inscribed, of which the only part

at all decipherable was the syllable “Vil.”

“Vil--Villa!” he cried out, in his excitement dropping the marble, which

was broken into atoms by the fall.

What else could this fragment be but the sole surviving remnant of some

sumptuous mansion that once had stood on this unrivaled site? Was it not

the residue of some edifice that had crowned the luxuriant headland of

Antibes, overlooking Nice, and commanding the gorgeous panorama that

embraced the Maritime Alps and reached beyond Monaco and Mentone to the

Italian height of Bordighera? And did it not give in its sad and too

convincing testimony that Antibes itself had been involved in the great

destruction? Servadac gazed upon the shattered marble, pensive and

disheartened.

Count Timascheff laid his hand kindly on the captain’s shoulder, and

said, “My friend, do you not remember the motto of the old Hope family?”

He shook his head mournfully.

“_Orbe fracto, spes illoesa_,” continued the count--“Though the world be

shattered, hope is unimpaired.”

Servadac smiled faintly, and replied that he felt rather compelled to

take up the despairing cry of Dante, “All hope abandon, ye who enter

here.”

“Nay, not so,” answered the count; “for the present at least, let our

maxim be _Nil desperandum!_”

CHAPTER XVII. A SECOND ENIGMA

Upon re-embarking, the bewildered explorers began to discuss the

question whether it would not now be desirable to make their way back

to Gourbi Island, which was apparently the only spot in their new world

from which they could hope to derive their future sustenance. Captain

Servadac tried to console himself with the reflection that Gourbi Island

was, after all, a fragment of a French colony, and as such almost like

a bit of his dear France; and the plan of returning thither was on the

point of being adopted, when Lieutenant Procope remarked that they ought

to remember that they had not hitherto made an entire circuit of the new

shores of the sea on which they were sailing.

“We have,” he said, “neither investigated the northern shore from the

site of Cape Antibes to the strait that brought us to Gibraltar, nor

have we followed the southern shore that stretches from the strait to

the Gulf of Cabes. It is the old coast, and not the new, that we have

been tracing; as yet, we cannot say positively that there is no outlet

to the south; as yet, we cannot assert that no oasis of the African

desert has escaped the catastrophe. Perhaps, even here in the north,

we may find that Italy and Sicily and the larger islands of the

Mediterranean may still maintain their existence.”

“I entirely concur with you,” said Count Timascheff. “I quite think we

ought to make our survey of the confines of this new basin as complete

as possible before we withdraw.”

Servadac, although he acknowledged the justness of these observations,

could not help pleading that the explorations might be deferred until

after a visit had been paid to Gourbi Island.

“Depend upon it, captain, you are mistaken,” replied the lieutenant;

“the right thing to do is to use the _Dobryna_ while she is available.”

“Available! What do you mean?” asked the count, somewhat taken by

surprise.

“I mean,” said Procope, “that the farther this Gallia of ours recedes

from the sun, the lower the temperature will fall. It is likely enough,

I think, that before long the sea will be frozen over, and navigation

will be impossible. Already you have learned something of the

difficulties of traversing a field of ice, and I am sure, therefore, you

will acquiesce in my wish to continue our explorations while the water

is still open.”

“No doubt you are right, lieutenant,” said the count. “We will continue

our search while we can for some remaining fragment of Europe. Who

shall tell whether we may not meet with some more survivors from the

catastrophe, to whom it might be in our power to afford assistance,

before we go into our winter quarters?”

Generous and altogether unselfish as this sentiment really was, it was

obviously to the general interest that they should become acquainted,

and if possible establish friendly relations, with any human inhabitant

who might be sharing their own strange destiny in being rolled away upon

a new planet into the infinitude of space. All difference of race, all

distinction of nationality, must be merged into the one thought that,

few as they were, they were the sole surviving representatives of a

world which it seemed exceedingly improbable that they would ever see

again; and common sense dictated that they were bound to direct all

their energies to insure that their asteroid should at least have a

united and sympathizing population.

It was on the 25th of February that the yacht left the little creek in

which she had taken refuge, and setting off at full steam eastwards,

she continued her way along the northern shore. A brisk breeze tended to

increase the keenness of the temperature, the thermometer being, on

an average, about two degrees below zero. Salt water freezes only at a

lower temperature than fresh; the course of the _Dobryna_ was therefore

unimpeded by ice, but it could not be concealed that there was the

greatest necessity to maintain the utmost possible speed.

The nights continued lovely; the chilled condition of the atmosphere

prevented the formation of clouds; the constellations gleamed forth

with unsullied luster; and, much as Lieutenant Procope, from nautical

considerations, might regret the absence of the moon, he could not do

otherwise than own that the magnificent nights of Gallia were such as

must awaken the enthusiasm of an astronomer. And, as if to compensate

for the loss of the moonlight, the heavens were illuminated by a

superb shower of falling stars, far exceeding, both in number and in

brilliancy, the phenomena which are commonly distinguished as the August

and November meteors; in fact, Gallia was passing through that meteoric

ring which is known to lie exterior to the earth’s orbit, but almost

concentric with it. The rocky coast, its metallic surface reflecting the

glow of the dazzling luminaries, appeared literally stippled with light,

whilst the sea, as though spattered with burning hailstones, shone with

a phosphorescence that was perfectly splendid. So great, however, was

the speed at which Gallia was receding from the sun, that this meteoric

storm lasted scarcely more than four and twenty hours.

Next day the direct progress of the _Dobryna_ was arrested by a long

projection of land, which obliged her to turn southwards, until she

reached what formerly would have been the southern extremity of Corsica.

Of this, however, there was now no trace; the Strait of Bonifacio had

been replaced by a vast expanse of water, which had at first all the

appearance of being utterly desert; but on the following morning the

explorers unexpectedly sighted a little island, which, unless it should

prove, as was only too likely, to be of recent origin they concluded,

from its situation, must be a portion of the northernmost territory of

Sardinia.

The _Dobryna_ approached the land as nearly as was prudent, the boat was

lowered, and in a few minutes the count and Servadac had landed upon

the islet, which was a mere plot of meadow land, not much more than

two acres in extent, dotted here and there with a few myrtle-bushes and

lentisks, interspersed with some ancient olives. Having ascertained, as

they imagined, that the spot was devoid of living creature, they were on

the point of returning to their boat, when their attention was arrested

by a faint bleating, and immediately afterwards a solitary she-goat came

bounding towards the shore. The creature had dark, almost black hair,

and small curved horns, and was a specimen of that domestic breed which,

with considerable justice, has gained for itself the title of “the poor

man’s cow.” So far from being alarmed at the presence of strangers, the

goat ran nimbly towards them, and then, by its movements and plaintive

cries, seemed to be enticing them to follow it.

“Come,” said Servadac; “let us see where it will lead us; it is more

than probable it is not alone.”

The count agreed; and the animal, as if comprehending what was said,

trotted on gently for about a hundred paces, and stopped in front of a

kind of cave or burrow that was half concealed by a grove of lentisks.

Here a little girl, seven or eight years of age, with rich brown hair

and lustrous dark eyes, beautiful as one of Murillo’s angels, was

peeping shyly through the branches. Apparently discovering nothing

in the aspect of the strangers to excite her apprehensions, the child

suddenly gained confidence, darted forwards with outstretched hands, and

in a voice, soft and melodious as the language which she spoke, said in

Italian:

“I like you; you will not hurt me, will you?”

“Hurt you, my child?” answered Servadac. “No, indeed; we will be your

friends; we will take care of you.”

And after a few moments’ scrutiny of the pretty maiden, he added:

“Tell us your name, little one.”

“Nina!” was the child’s reply.

“Well, then, Nina, can you tell us where we are?”

“At Madalena, I think,” said the little girl; “at least, I know I was

there when that dreadful shock came and altered everything.”

The count knew that Madalena was close to Caprera, to the north of

Sardinia, which had entirely disappeared in the disaster. By dint of a

series of questions, he gained from the child a very intelligent account

of her experiences. She told him that she had no parents, and had been

employed in taking care of a flock of goats belonging to one of the

landowners, when one day, all of a sudden, everything around her, except

this little piece of land, had been swallowed up, and that she and

Marzy, her pet goat, had been left quite alone. She went on to say that

at first she had been very frightened; but when she found that the earth

did not shake any more, she had thanked the great God, and had soon made

herself very happy living with Marzy. She had enough food, she said, and

had been waiting for a boat to fetch her, and now a boat had come and

she was quite ready to go away; only they must let her goat go with her:

they would both like so much to get back to the old farm.

“Here, at least, is one nice little inhabitant of Gallia,” said Captain

Servadac, as he caressed the child and conducted her to the boat.

Half an hour later, both Nina and Marzy were safely quartered on board

the yacht. It is needless to say that they received the heartiest of

welcomes. The Russian sailors, ever superstitious, seemed almost to

regard the coming of the child as the appearance of an angel; and,

incredible as it may seem, more than one of them wondered whether she

had wings, and amongst themselves they commonly referred to her as “the

little Madonna.”

Soon out of sight of Madalena, the _Dobryna_ for some hours held a

southeasterly course along the shore, which here was fifty leagues in

advance of the former coast-line of Italy, demonstrating that a new

continent must have been formed, substituted as it were for the old

peninsula, of which not a vestige could be identified. At a latitude

corresponding with the latitude of Rome, the sea took the form of a deep

gulf, extending back far beyond the site of the Eternal City; the

coast making a wide sweep round to the former position of Calabria, and

jutting far beyond the outline of “the boot,” which Italy resembles.

But the beacon of Messina was not to be discerned; no trace, indeed,

survived of any portion of Sicily; the very peak of Etna, 11,000 feet as

it had reared itself above the level of the sea, had vanished utterly.

Another sixty leagues to the south, and the _Dobryna_ sighted the

entrance of the strait which had afforded her so providential a refuge

from the tempest, and had conducted her to the fragmentary relic of

Gibraltar. Hence to the Gulf of Cabes had been already explored, and as

it was universally allowed that it was unnecessary to renew the search

in that direction, the lieutenant started off in a transverse course,

towards a point hitherto uninvestigated. That point was reached on the

3rd of March, and thence the coast was continuously followed, as it led

through what had been Tunis, across the province of Constantine, away

to the oasis of Ziban; where, taking a sharp turn, it first reached a

latitude of 32 degrees, and then returned again, thus forming a sort

of irregular gulf, enclosed by the same unvarying border of mineral

concrete. This colossal boundary then stretched away for nearly 150

leagues over the Sahara desert, and, extending to the south of Gourbi

Island, occupied what, if Morocco had still existed, would have been its

natural frontier.

Adapting her course to these deviations of the coastline, the _Dobryna_

was steering northwards, and had barely reached the limit of the bay,

when the attention of all on board was arrested by the phenomenon of a

volcano, at least 3,000 feet high, its crater crowned with smoke, which

occasionally was streaked by tongues of flame.

“A burning mountain!” they exclaimed.

“Gallia, then, has some internal heat,” said Servadac.

“And why not, captain?” rejoined the lieutenant. “If our asteroid has

carried with it a portion of the old earth’s atmosphere, why should it

not likewise retain something of its central fire?”

“Ah, well!” said the captain, shrugging his shoulders, “I dare say

there is caloric enough in our little world to supply the wants of its

population.”

Count Timascheff interrupted the silence that followed this conversation

by saying, “And now, gentlemen, as our course has brought us on our

way once more towards Gibraltar, what do you say to our renewing our

acquaintance with the Englishmen? They will be interested in the result

of our voyage.”

“For my part,” said Servadac, “I have no desire that way. They know

where to find Gourbi Island; they can betake themselves thither just

when they please. They have plenty of provisions. If the water freezes,

120 leagues is no very great distance. The reception they gave us was

not so cordial that we need put ourselves out of the way to repeat our

visit.”

“What you say is too true,” replied the count. “I hope we shall show

them better manners when they condescend to visit us.”

“Ay,” said Servadac, “we must remember that we are all one people now;

no longer Russian, French, or English. Nationality is extinct.”

“I am sadly afraid, however,” continued the count, “that an Englishman

will be an Englishman ever.”

“Yes,” said the captain, “that is always their failing.”

And thus all further thought of making their way again to the little

garrison of Gibraltar was abandoned.

But even if their spirit of courtesy had disposed them to renew their

acquaintance with the British officers, there were two circumstances

that just then would have rendered such a proposal very unadvisable. In

the first place, Lieutenant Procope was convinced that it could not be

much longer now before the sea would be entirely frozen; and, besides

this, the consumption of their coal, through the speed they had

maintained, had been so great that there was only too much reason

to fear that fuel would fail them. Anyhow, the strictest economy was

necessary, and it was accordingly resolved that the voyage should not be

much prolonged. Beyond the volcanic peak, moreover, the waters seemed to

expand into a boundless ocean, and it might be a thing full of risk to

be frozen up while the yacht was so inadequately provisioned. Taking

all these things into account, it was agreed that further investigations

should be deferred to a more favorable season, and that, without delay,

the _Dobryna_ should return to Gourbi Island.

This decision was especially welcome to Hector Servadac, who, throughout

the whole of the last five weeks, had been agitated by much anxious

thought on account of the faithful servant he had left behind.

The transit from the volcano to the island was not long, and was marked

by only one noticeable incident. This was the finding of a second

mysterious document, in character precisely similar to what they had

found before. The writer of it was evidently engaged upon a calculation,

probably continued from day to day, as to the motions of the planet

Gallia upon its orbit, and committing the results of his reckonings to

the waves as the channel of communication.

Instead of being enclosed in a telescope-case, it was this time secured

in a preserved-meat tin, hermetically sealed, and stamped with the same

initials on the wax that fastened it. The greatest care was used in

opening it, and it was found to contain the following message:

“Gallia Ab sole, au 1 mars, dist. 78,000,000 l.! Chemin parcouru de fev.

a mars: 59,000,000 1.! _Va bene! All right! Nil desperandum!_

“Enchante!”

“Another enigma!” exclaimed Servadac; “and still no intelligible

signature, and no address. No clearing up of the mystery!”

“I have no doubt, in my own mind,” said the count, “that it is one of a

series. It seems to me probable that they are being sent broadcast upon

the sea.”

“I wonder where the hare-brained _savant_ that writes them can be

living?” observed Servadac.

“Very likely he may have met with the fate of AEsop’s abstracted

astronomer, who found himself at the bottom of a well.”

“Ay; but where _is_ that well?” demanded the captain.

This was a question which the count was incapable of settling; and they

could only speculate afresh as to whether the author of the riddles was

dwelling upon some solitary island, or, like themselves, was navigating

the waters of the new Mediterranean. But they could detect nothing to

guide them to a definite decision.

After thoughtfully regarding the document for some time. Lieutenant

Procope proceeded to observe that he believed the paper might be

considered as genuine, and accordingly, taking its statements as

reliable, he deduced two important conclusions: first, that whereas,

in the month of January, the distance traveled by the planet

(hypothetically called Gallia) had been recorded as 82,000,000 leagues,

the distance traveled in February was only 59,000,000 leagues--a

difference of 23,000,000 leagues in one month; secondly, that the

distance of the planet from the sun, which on the 15th of February had

been 59,000,000 leagues, was on the 1st of March 78,000,000 leagues--an

increase of 19,000,000 leagues in a fortnight. Thus, in proportion as

Gallia receded from the sun, so did the rate of speed diminish by which

she traveled along her orbit; facts to be observed in perfect conformity

with the known laws of celestial mechanism.

“And your inference?” asked the count.

“My inference,” replied the lieutenant, “is a confirmation of my surmise

that we are following an orbit decidedly elliptical, although we have

not yet the material to determine its eccentricity.”

“As the writer adheres to the appellation of Gallia, do you not think,”

asked the count, “that we might call these new waters the Gallian Sea?”

“There can be no reason to the contrary, count,” replied the lieutenant;

“and as such I will insert it upon my new chart.”

“Our friend,” said Servadac, “seems to be more and more gratified

with the condition of things; not only has he adopted our motto, ‘_Nil

desperandum!_’ but see how enthusiastically he has wound up with his

‘_Enchante!_’”

The conversation dropped.

A few hours later the man on watch announced that Gourbi Island was in

sight.

CHAPTER XVIII. AN UNEXPECTED POPULATION

The _Dobryna_ was now back again at the island. Her cruise had lasted

from the 31st of January to the 5th of March, a period of thirty-five

days (for it was leap year), corresponding to seventy days as

accomplished by the new little world.

Many a time during his absence Hector Servadac had wondered how his

present vicissitudes would end, and he had felt some misgivings as

to whether he should ever again set foot upon the island, and see

his faithful orderly, so that it was not without emotion that he had

approached the coast of the sole remaining fragment of Algerian soil.

But his apprehensions were groundless; Gourbi Island was just as he had

left it, with nothing unusual in its aspect, except that a very peculiar

cloud was hovering over it, at an altitude of little more than a hundred

feet. As the yacht approached the shore, this cloud appeared to rise and

fall as if acted upon by some invisible agency, and the captain, after

watching it carefully, perceived that it was not an accumulation of

vapors at all, but a dense mass of birds packed as closely together as

a swarm of herrings, and uttering deafening and discordant cries,

amidst which from time to time the noise of the report of a gun could be

plainly distinguished.

The _Dobryna_ signalized her arrival by firing her cannon, and dropped

anchor in the little port of the Shelif. Almost within a minute Ben Zoof

was seen running, gun in hand, towards the shore; he cleared the last

ridge of rocks at a single bound, and then suddenly halted. For a

few seconds he stood motionless, his eyes fixed, as if obeying the

instructions of a drill sergeant, on a point some fifteen yards distant,

his whole attitude indicating submission and respect; but the sight

of the captain, who was landing, was too much for his equanimity, and

darting forward, he seized his master’s hand and covered it with kisses.

Instead, however, of uttering any expressions of welcome or rejoicing

at the captain’s return, Ben Zoof broke out into the most vehement

ejaculations.

“Thieves, captain! beastly thieves! Bedouins! pirates! devils!”

“Why, Ben Zoof, what’s the matter?” said Servadac soothingly.

“They are thieves! downright, desperate thieves! those infernal birds!

That’s what’s the matter. It is a good thing you have come. Here have

I for a whole month been spending my powder and shot upon them, and the

more I kill them, the worse they get; and yet, if I were to leave them

alone, we should not have a grain of corn upon the island.”

It was soon evident that the orderly had only too much cause for alarm.

The crops had ripened rapidly during the excessive heat of January, when

the orbit of Gallia was being traversed at its perihelion, and were now

exposed to the depredations of many thousands of birds; and although

a goodly number of stacks attested the industry of Ben Zoof during

the time of the _Dobryna_‘s voyage, it was only too apparent that the

portion of the harvest that remained ungathered was liable to the most

imminent risk of being utterly devoured. It was, perhaps, only natural

that this clustered mass of birds, as representing the whole of the

feathered tribe upon the surface of Gallia, should resort to Gourbi

Island, of which the meadows seemed to be the only spot from which they

could get sustenance at all; but as this sustenance would be obtained

at the expense, and probably to the serious detriment, of the human

population, it was absolutely necessary that every possible resistance

should be made to the devastation that was threatened.

Once satisfied that Servadac and his friends would cooperate with him in

the raid upon “the thieves,” Ben Zoof became calm and content, and began

to make various inquiries. “And what has become,” he said, “of all our

old comrades in Africa?”

“As far as I can tell you,” answered the captain, “they are all in

Africa still; only Africa isn’t by any means where we expected to find

it.”

“And France? Montmartre?” continued Ben Zoof eagerly. Here was the cry

of the poor fellow’s heart.

As briefly as he could, Servadac endeavored to explain the true

condition of things; he tried to communicate the fact that Paris,

France, Europe, nay, the whole world was more than eighty millions of

leagues away from Gourbi Island; as gently and cautiously as he could

he expressed his fear that they might never see Europe, France, Paris,

Montmartre again.

“No, no, sir!” protested Ben Zoof emphatically; “that is all nonsense.

It is altogether out of the question to suppose that we are not to see

Montmartre again.” And the orderly shook his head resolutely, with the

air of a man determined, in spite of argument, to adhere to his own

opinion.

“Very good, my brave fellow,” replied Servadac, “hope on, hope while you

may. The message has come to us over the sea, ‘Never despair’; but one

thing, nevertheless, is certain; we must forthwith commence arrangements

for making this island our permanent home.”

Captain Servadac now led the way to the gourbi, which, by his servant’s

exertions, had been entirely rebuilt; and here he did the honors of his

modest establishment to his two guests, the count and the lieutenant,

and gave a welcome, too, to little Nina, who had accompanied them on

shore, and between whom and Ben Zoof the most friendly relations had

already been established.

The adjacent building continued in good preservation, and Captain

Servadac’s satisfaction was very great in finding the two horses, Zephyr

and Galette, comfortably housed there and in good condition.

After the enjoyment of some refreshment, the party proceeded to a

general consultation as to what steps must be taken for their future

welfare. The most pressing matter that came before them was the

consideration of the means to be adopted to enable the inhabitants of

Gallia to survive the terrible cold, which, in their ignorance of the

true eccentricity of their orbit, might, for aught they knew, last for

an almost indefinite period. Fuel was far from abundant; of coal there

was none; trees and shrubs were few in number, and to cut them down in

prospect of the cold seemed a very questionable policy; but there was

no doubt some expedient must be devised to prevent disaster, and that

without delay.

The victualing of the little colony offered no immediate difficulty.

Water was abundant, and the cisterns could hardly fail to be replenished

by the numerous streams that meandered along the plains; moreover, the

Gallian Sea would ere long be frozen over, and the melted ice (water

in its congealed state being divested of every particle of salt) would

afford a supply of drink that could not be exhausted. The crops that

were now ready for the harvest, and the flocks and herds scattered over

the island, would form an ample reserve. There was little doubt that

throughout the winter the soil would remain unproductive, and no fresh

fodder for domestic animals could then be obtained; it would therefore

be necessary, if the exact duration of Gallia’s year should ever be

calculated, to proportion the number of animals to be reserved to the

real length of the winter.

The next thing requisite was to arrive at a true estimate of the

number of the population. Without including the thirteen Englishmen at

Gibraltar, about whom he was not particularly disposed to give himself

much concern at present, Servadac put down the names of the eight

Russians, the two Frenchman, and the little Italian girl, eleven in all,

as the entire list of the inhabitants of Gourbi Island.

“Oh, pardon me,” interposed Ben Zoof, “you are mistaking the state of

the case altogether. You will be surprised to learn that the total of

people on the island is double that. It is twenty-two.”

“Twenty-two!” exclaimed the captain; “twenty-two people on this island?

What do you mean?”

“The opportunity has not occurred,” answered Ben Zoof, “for me to tell

you before, but I have had company.”

“Explain yourself, Ben Zoof,” said Servadac. “What company have you

had?”

“You could not suppose,” replied the orderly, “that my own unassisted

hands could have accomplished all that harvest work that you see has

been done.”

“I confess,” said Lieutenant Procope, “we do not seem to have noticed

that.”

“Well, then,” said Ben Zoof, “if you will be good enough to come with me

for about a mile, I shall be able to show you my companions. But we must

take our guns.”

“Why take our guns?” asked Servadac. “I hope we are not going to fight.”

“No, not with men,” said Ben Zoof; “but it does not answer to throw a

chance away for giving battle to those thieves of birds.”

Leaving little Nina and her goat in the gourbi, Servadac, Count

Timascheff, and the lieutenant, greatly mystified, took up their guns

and followed the orderly. All along their way they made unsparing

slaughter of the birds that hovered over and around them. Nearly every

species of the feathered tribe seemed to have its representative in that

living cloud. There were wild ducks in thousands; snipe, larks, rooks,

and swallows; a countless variety of sea-birds--widgeons, gulls, and

seamews; beside a quantity of game--quails, partridges, and woodcocks.

The sportsmen did their best; every shot told; and the depredators fell

by dozens on either hand.

Instead of following the northern shore of the island, Ben Zoof cut

obliquely across the plain. Making their progress with the unwonted

rapidity which was attributable to their specific lightness, Servadac

and his companions soon found themselves near a grove of sycamores and

eucalyptus massed in picturesque confusion at the base of a little hill.

Here they halted.

“Ah! the vagabonds! the rascals! the thieves!” suddenly exclaimed Ben

Zoof, stamping his foot with rage.

“How now? Are your friends the birds at their pranks again?” asked the

captain.

“No, I don’t mean the birds: I mean those lazy beggars that are shirking

their work. Look here; look there!” And as Ben Zoof spoke, he pointed

to some scythes, and sickles, and other implements of husbandry that had

been left upon the ground.

“What is it you mean?” asked Servadac, getting somewhat impatient.

“Hush, hush! listen!” was all Ben Zoof’s reply; and he raised his finger

as if in warning.

Listening attentively, Servadac and his associates could distinctly

recognize a human voice, accompanied by the notes of a guitar and by the

measured click of castanets.

“Spaniards!” said Servadac.

“No mistake about that, sir,” replied Ben Zoof; “a Spaniard would rattle

his castanets at the cannon’s mouth.”

“But what is the meaning of it all?” asked the captain, more puzzled

than before.

“Hark!” said Ben Zoof; “it is the old man’s turn.”

And then a voice, at once gruff and harsh, was heard vociferating, “My

money! my money! when will you pay me my money? Pay me what you owe me,

you miserable majos.”

Meanwhile the song continued:

_“Tu sandunga y cigarro,

Y una cana de Jerez,

Mi jamelgo y un trabuco,

Que mas gloria puede haver?”_

Servadac’s knowledge of Gascon enabled him partially to comprehend the

rollicking tenor of the Spanish patriotic air, but his attention was

again arrested by the voice of the old man growling savagely, “Pay me

you shall; yes, by the God of Abraham, you shall pay me.”

“A Jew!” exclaimed Servadac.

“Ay, sir, a German Jew,” said Ben Zoof.

The party was on the point of entering the thicket, when a singular

spectacle made them pause. A group of Spaniards had just begun dancing

their national fandango, and the extraordinary lightness which had

become the physical property of every object in the new planet made

the dancers bound to a height of thirty feet or more into the air,

considerably above the tops of the trees. What followed was irresistibly

comic. Four sturdy majos had dragged along with them an old man

incapable of resistance, and compelled him, _nolens volens_, to join

in the dance; and as they all kept appearing and disappearing above the

bank of foliage, their grotesque attitudes, combined with the pitiable

countenance of their helpless victim, could not do otherwise than recall

most forcibly the story of Sancho Panza tossed in a blanket by the merry

drapers of Segovia.

Servadac, the count, Procope, and Ben Zoof now proceeded to make their

way through the thicket until they came to a little glade, where two men

were stretched idly on the grass, one of them playing the guitar, and

the other a pair of castanets; both were exploding with laughter, as

they urged the performers to greater and yet greater exertions in

the dance. At the sight of strangers they paused in their music, and

simultaneously the dancers, with their victim, alighted gently on the

sward.

Breathless and half exhausted as was the Jew, he rushed with an effort

towards Servadac, and exclaimed in French, marked by a strong Teutonic

accent, “Oh, my lord governor, help me, help! These rascals defraud me

of my rights; they rob me; but, in the name of the God of Israel, I ask

you to see justice done!”

The captain glanced inquiringly towards Ben Zoof, and the orderly, by a

significant nod, made his master understand that he was to play the part

that was implied by the title. He took the cue, and promptly ordered

the Jew to hold his tongue at once. The man bowed his head in servile

submission, and folded his hands upon his breast.

Servadac surveyed him leisurely. He was a man of about fifty, but from

his appearance might well have been taken for at least ten years older.

Small and skinny, with eyes bright and cunning, a hooked nose, a short

yellow beard, unkempt hair, huge feet, and long bony hands, he presented

all the typical characteristics of the German Jew, the heartless, wily

usurer, the hardened miser and skinflint. As iron is attracted by the

magnet, so was this Shylock attracted by the sight of gold, nor would he

have hesitated to draw the life-blood of his creditors, if by such means

he could secure his claims.

His name was Isaac Hakkabut, and he was a native of Cologne. Nearly the

whole of his time, however, he informed Captain Servadac, had been spent

upon the sea, his real business being that of a merchant trading at all

the ports of the Mediterranean. A tartan, a small vessel of two hundred

tons burden, conveyed his entire stock of merchandise, and, to say the

truth, was a sort of floating emporium, conveying nearly every possible

article of commerce, from a lucifer match to the radiant fabrics of

Frankfort and Epinal. Without wife or children, and having no settled

home, Isaac Hakkabut lived almost entirely on board the _Hansa_, as he

had named his tartan; and engaging a mate, with a crew of three men, as

being adequate to work so light a craft, he cruised along the coasts of

Algeria, Tunis, Egypt, Turkey, and Greece, visiting, moreover, most of

the harbors of the Levant. Careful to be always well supplied with the

products in most general demand--coffee, sugar, rice, tobacco, cotton

stuffs, and gunpowder--and being at all times ready to barter, and

prepared to deal in secondhand wares, he had contrived to amass

considerable wealth.

On the eventful night of the 1st of January the _Hansa_ had been at

Ceuta, the point on the coast of Morocco exactly opposite Gibraltar. The

mate and three sailors had all gone on shore, and, in common with

many of their fellow-creatures, had entirely disappeared; but the

most projecting rock of Ceuta had been undisturbed by the general

catastrophe, and half a score of Spaniards, who had happened to be

upon it, had escaped with their lives. They were all Andalusian majos,

agricultural laborers, and naturally as careless and apathetic as men of

their class usually are, but they could not help being very considerably

embarrassed when they discovered that they were left in solitude upon

a detached and isolated rock. They took what mutual counsel they could,

but became only more and more perplexed. One of them was named Negrete,

and he, as having traveled somewhat more than the rest, was tacitly

recognized as a sort of leader; but although he was by far the most

enlightened of them all, he was quite incapable of forming the least

conception of the nature of what had occurred. The one thing upon which

they could not fail to be conscious was that they had no prospect of

obtaining provisions, and consequently their first business was to

devise a scheme for getting away from their present abode. The _Hansa_

was lying off shore. The Spaniards would not have had the slightest

hesitation in summarily taking possession of her, but their utter

ignorance of seamanship made them reluctantly come to the conclusion

that the more prudent policy was to make terms with the owner.

And now came a singular part of the story. Negrete and his companions

had meanwhile received a visit from two English officers from Gibraltar.

What passed between them the Jew did not know; he only knew that,

immediately after the conclusion of the interview, Negrete came to him

and ordered him to set sail at once for the nearest point of Morocco.

The Jew, afraid to disobey, but with his eye ever upon the main chance,

stipulated that at the end of their voyage the Spaniards should pay for

their passage--terms to which, as they would to any other, they did not

demur, knowing that they had not the slightest intention of giving him a

single real.

The _Hansa_ had weighed anchor on the 3rd of February. The wind blew

from the west, and consequently the working of the tartan was easy

enough. The unpracticed sailors had only to hoist their sails and,

though they were quite unconscious of the fact, the breeze carried them

to the only spot upon the little world they occupied which could afford

them a refuge.

Thus it fell out that one morning Ben Zoof, from his lookout on Gourbi

Island, saw a ship, not the _Dobryna_, appear upon the horizon, and

make quietly down towards what had formerly been the right bank of the

Shelif.

Such was Ben Zoof’s version of what had occurred, as he had gathered it

from the new-comers. He wound up his recital by remarking that the cargo

of the _Hansa_ would be of immense service to them; he expected, indeed,

that Isaac Hakkabut would be difficult to manage, but considered there

could be no harm in appropriating the goods for the common welfare,

since there could be no opportunity now for selling them.

Ben Zoof added, “And as to the difficulties between the Jew and his

passengers, I told him that the governor general was absent on a tour of

inspection, and that he would see everything equitably settled.”

Smiling at his orderly’s tactics, Servadac turned to Hakkabut, and told

him that he would take care that his claims should be duly investigated

and all proper demands should be paid. The man appeared satisfied, and,

for the time at least, desisted from his complaints and importunities.

When the Jew had retired, Count Timascheff asked, “But how in the world

can you ever make those fellows pay anything?”

“They have lots of money,” said Ben Zoof.

“Not likely,” replied the count; “when did you ever know Spaniards like

them to have lots of money?”

“But I have seen it myself,” said Ben Zoof; “and it is English money.”

“English money!” echoed Servadac; and his mind again reverted to the

excursion made by the colonel and the major from Gibraltar, about which

they had been so reticent. “We must inquire more about this,” he said.

Then, addressing Count Timascheff, he added, “Altogether, I think the

countries of Europe are fairly represented by the population of Gallia.”

“True, captain,” answered the count; “we have only a fragment of a

world, but it contains natives of France, Russia, Italy, Spain, and

England. Even Germany may be said to have a representative in the person

of this miserable Jew.”

“And even in him,” said Servadac, “perhaps we shall not find so

indifferent a representative as we at present imagine.”

CHAPTER XIX. GALLIA’S GOVERNOR GENERAL

The Spaniards who had arrived on board the _Hansa_ consisted of nine men

and a lad of twelve years of age, named Pablo. They all received Captain

Servadac, whom Ben Zoof introduced as the governor general, with due

respect, and returned quickly to their separate tasks. The captain and

his friends, followed at some distance by the eager Jew, soon left the

glade and directed their steps towards the coast where the _Hansa_ was

moored.

As they went they discussed their situation. As far as they had

ascertained, except Gourbi Island, the sole surviving fragments of the

Old World were four small islands: the bit of Gibraltar occupied by the

Englishmen; Ceuta, which had just been left by the Spaniards; Madalena,

where they had picked up the little Italian girl; and the site of

the tomb of Saint Louis on the coast of Tunis. Around these there was

stretched out the full extent of the Gallian Sea, which apparently

comprised about one-half of the Mediterranean, the whole being

encompassed by a barrier like a framework of precipitous cliffs, of an

origin and a substance alike unknown.

Of all these spots only two were known to be inhabited: Gibraltar, where

the thirteen Englishmen were amply provisioned for some years to come,

and their own Gourbi Island. Here there was a population of twenty-two,

who would all have to subsist upon the natural products of the soil.

It was indeed not to be forgotten that, perchance, upon some remote and

undiscovered isle there might be the solitary writer of the mysterious

papers which they had found, and if so, that would raise the census of

their new asteroid to an aggregate of thirty-six.

Even upon the supposition that at some future date the whole population

should be compelled to unite and find a residence upon Gourbi Island,

there did not appear any reason to question but that eight hundred

acres of rich soil, under good management, would yield them all an ample

sustenance. The only critical matter was how long the cold season would

last; every hope depended upon the land again becoming productive; at

present, it seemed impossible to determine, even if Gallia’s orbit

were really elliptic, when she would reach her aphelion, and it was

consequently necessary that the Gallians for the time being should

reckon on nothing beyond their actual and present resources.

These resources were, first, the provisions of the _Dobryna_, consisting

of preserved meat, sugar, wine, brandy, and other stores sufficient for

about two months; secondly, the valuable cargo of the _Hansa_, which,

sooner or later, the owner, whether he would or not, must be compelled

to surrender for the common benefit; and lastly, the produce of the

island, animal and vegetable, which with proper economy might be made to

last for a considerable period.

In the course of the conversation, Count Timascheff took an opportunity

of saying that, as Captain Servadac had already been presented to the

Spaniards as governor of the island, he thought it advisable that he

should really assume that position.

“Every body of men,” he observed, “must have a head, and you, as a

Frenchman, should, I think, take the command of this fragment of a

French colony. My men, I can answer for it, are quite prepared to

recognize you as their superior officer.”

“Most unhesitatingly,” replied Servadac, “I accept the post with all its

responsibilities. We understand each other so well that I feel sure we

shall try and work together for the common good; and even if it be our

fate never again to behold our fellow creatures, I have no misgivings

but that we shall be able to cope with whatever difficulties may be

before us.”

As he spoke, he held out his hand. The count took it, at the same time

making a slight bow. It was the first time since their meeting that the

two men had shaken hands; on the other hand, not a single word about

their former rivalry had ever escaped their lips; perhaps that was all

forgotten now.

The silence of a few moments was broken by Servadac saying, “Do you not

think we ought to explain our situation to the Spaniards?”

“No, no, your Excellency,” burst in Ben Zoof, emphatically; “the fellows

are chicken-hearted enough already; only tell them what has happened,

and in sheer despondency they will not do another stroke of work.”

“Besides,” said Lieutenant Procope, who took very much the same view

as the orderly, “they are so miserably ignorant they would be sure to

misunderstand you.”

“Understand or misunderstand,” replied Servadac, “I do not think it

matters. They would not care. They are all fatalists. Only give them

a guitar and their castanets, and they will soon forget all care and

anxiety. For my own part, I must adhere to my belief that it will

be advisable to tell them everything. Have you any opinion to offer,

count?”

“My own opinion, captain, coincides entirely with yours. I have followed

the plan of explaining all I could to my men on board the _Dobryna_, and

no inconvenience has arisen.”

“Well, then, so let it be,” said the captain; adding, “It is not likely

that these Spaniards are so ignorant as not to have noticed the change

in the length of the days; neither can they be unaware of the physical

changes that have transpired. They shall certainly be told that we are

being carried away into unknown regions of space, and that this island

is nearly all that remains of the Old World.”

“Ha! ha!” laughed Ben Zoof, aloud; “it will be fine sport to watch the

old Jew’s face, when he is made to comprehend that he is flying away

millions and millions of leagues from all his debtors.”

Isaac Hakkabut was about fifty yards behind, and was consequently unable

to overhear the conversation. He went shambling along, half whimpering

and not unfrequently invoking the God of Israel; but every now and then

a cunning light gleamed from his eyes, and his lips became compressed

with a grim significance.

None of the recent phenomena had escaped his notice, and more than once

he had attempted to entice Ben Zoof into conversation upon the subject;

but the orderly made no secret of his antipathy to him, and generally

replied to his advances either by satire or by banter. He told him that

he had everything to gain under the new system of nights and days, for,

instead of living the Jew’s ordinary life of a century, he would

reach to the age of two centuries; and he congratulated him upon the

circumstance of things having become so light, because it would prevent

him feeling the burden of his years. At another time he would declare

that, to an old usurer like him, it could not matter in the least what

had become of the moon, as he could not possibly have advanced any

money upon her. And when Isaac, undaunted by his jeers, persevered in

besetting him with questions, he tried to silence him by saying, “Only

wait till the governor general comes; he is a shrewd fellow, and will

tell you all about it.”

“But will he protect my property?” poor Isaac would ask tremulously.

“To be sure he will! He would confiscate it all rather than that you

should be robbed of it.”

With this Job’s comfort the Jew had been obliged to content himself as

best he could, and to await the promised arrival of the governor.

When Servadac and his companions reached the shore, they found that the

_Hansa_ had anchored in an exposed bay, protected but barely by a few

projecting rocks, and in such a position that a gale rising from the

west would inevitably drive her on to the land, where she must be dashed

in pieces. It would be the height of folly to leave her in her present

moorings; without loss of time she must be brought round to the mouth of

the Shelif, in immediate proximity to the Russian yacht.

The consciousness that his tartan was the subject of discussion made

the Jew give way to such vehement ejaculations of anxiety, that Servadac

turned round and peremptorily ordered him to desist from his clamor.

Leaving the old man under the surveillance of the count and Ben Zoof,

the captain and the lieutenant stepped into a small boat and were soon

alongside the floating emporium.

A very short inspection sufficed to make them aware that both the tartan

and her cargo were in a perfect state of preservation. In the hold were

sugar-loaves by hundreds, chests of tea, bags of coffee, hogsheads of

tobacco, pipes of wine, casks of brandy, barrels of dried herrings,

bales of cotton, clothing of every kind, shoes of all sizes, caps of

various shape, tools, household utensils, china and earthenware, reams

of paper, bottles of ink, boxes of lucifer matches, blocks of salt, bags

of pepper and spices, a stock of huge Dutch cheeses, and a collection of

almanacs and miscellaneous literature. At a rough guess the value could

not be much under pounds 5,000 sterling. A new cargo had been taken in

only a few days before the catastrophe, and it had been Isaac Hakkabut’s

intention to cruise from Ceuta to Tripoli, calling wherever he had

reason to believe there was likely to be a market for any of his

commodities.

“A fine haul, lieutenant,” said the captain.

“Yes, indeed,” said the lieutenant; “but what if the owner refuses to

part with it?”

“No fear; no fear,” replied the captain. “As soon as ever the old rascal

finds that there are no more Arabs or Algerians for him to fleece, he

will be ready enough to transact a little business with us. We will pay

him by bills of acceptance on some of his old friends in the Old World.”

“But why should he want any payment?” inquired the lieutenant. “Under

the circumstances, he must know that you have a right to make a

requisition of his goods.”

“No, no,” quickly rejoined Servadac; “we will not do that. Just because

the fellow is a German we shall not be justified in treating him in

German fashion. We will transact our business in a business way. Only

let him once realize that he is on a new globe, with no prospect of

getting back to the old one, and he will be ready enough to come to

terms with us.”

“Perhaps you are right,” replied the lieutenant; “I hope you are. But

anyhow, it will not do to leave the tartan here; not only would she be

in danger in the event of a storm, but it is very questionable whether

she could resist the pressure of the ice, if the water were to freeze.”

“Quite true, Procope; and accordingly I give you the commission to see

that your crew bring her round to the Shelif as soon as may be.”

“To-morrow morning it shall be done,” answered the lieutenant, promptly.

Upon returning to the shore, it was arranged that the whole of the

little colony should forthwith assemble at the gourbi. The Spaniards

were summoned and Isaac, although he could only with reluctance take his

wistful gaze from his tartan, obeyed the governor’s orders to follow.

An hour later and the entire population of twenty-two had met in the

chamber adjoining the gourbi. Young Pablo made his first acquaintance

with little Nina, and the child seemed highly delighted to find a

companion so nearly of her own age. Leaving the children to entertain

each other, Captain Servadac began his address.

Before entering upon further explanation, he said that he counted upon

the cordial co-operation of them all for the common welfare.

Negrete interrupted him by declaring that no promises or pledges could

be given until he and his countrymen knew how soon they could be sent

back to Spain.

“To Spain, do you say?” asked Servadac.

“To Spain!” echoed Isaac Hakkabut, with a hideous yell. “Do they expect

to go back to Spain till they have paid their debts? Your Excellency,

they owe me twenty reals apiece for their passage here; they owe me two

hundred reals. Are they to be allowed...?”

“Silence, Mordecai, you fool!” shouted Ben Zoof, who was accustomed

to call the Jew by any Hebrew name that came uppermost to his memory.

“Silence!”

Servadac was disposed to appease the old man’s anxiety by promising

to see that justice was ultimately done; but, in a fever of frantic

excitement, he went on to implore that he might have the loan of a few

sailors to carry his ship to Algiers.

“I will pay you honestly; I will pay you _well_,” he cried; but his

ingrained propensity for making a good bargain prompted him to add,

“provided you do not overcharge me.”

Ben Zoof was about again to interpose some angry exclamation; but

Servadac checked him, and continued in Spanish: “Listen to me, my

friends. Something very strange has happened. A most wonderful event has

cut us off from Spain, from France, from Italy, from every country

of Europe. In fact, we have left the Old World entirely. Of the whole

earth, nothing remains except this island on which you are now taking

refuge. The old globe is far, far away. Our present abode is but an

insignificant fragment that is left. I dare not tell you that there is

any chance of your ever again seeing your country or your homes.”

He paused. The Spaniards evidently had no conception of his meaning.

Negrete begged him to tell them all again. He repeated all that he had

said, and by introducing some illustrations from familiar things,

he succeeded to a certain extent in conveying some faint idea of the

convulsion that had happened. The event was precisely what he had

foretold. The communication was received by all alike with the most

supreme indifference.

Hakkabut did not say a word. He had listened with manifest attention,

his lips twitching now and then as if suppressing a smile. Servadac

turned to him, and asked whether he was still disposed to put out to sea

and make for Algiers.

The Jew gave a broad grin, which, however, he was careful to conceal

from the Spaniards. “Your Excellency jests,” he said in French; and

turning to Count Timascheff, he added in Russian: “The governor has made

up a wonderful tale.”

The count turned his back in disgust, while the Jew sidled up to little

Nina and muttered in Italian. “A lot of lies, pretty one; a lot of

lies!”

“Confound the knave!” exclaimed Ben Zoof; “he gabbles every tongue under

the sun!”

“Yes,” said Servadac; “but whether he speaks French, Russian, Spanish,

German, or Italian, he is neither more nor less than a Jew.”

CHAPTER XX. A LIGHT ON THE HORIZON

On the following day, without giving himself any further concern about

the Jew’s incredulity, the captain gave orders for the _Hansa_ to be

shifted round to the harbor of the Shelif. Hakkabut raised no objection,

not only because he was aware that the move insured the immediate safety

of his tartan, but because he was secretly entertaining the hope that

he might entice away two or three of the _Dobryna’s_ crew and make his

escape to Algiers or some other port.

Operations now commenced for preparing proper winter quarters. Spaniards

and Russians alike joined heartily in the work, the diminution of

atmospheric pressure and of the force of attraction contributing such

an increase to their muscular force as materially facilitated all their

labors.

The first business was to accommodate the building adjacent to the

gourbi to the wants of the little colony. Here for the present the

Spaniards were lodged, the Russians retaining their berths upon the

yacht, while the Jew was permitted to pass his nights upon the _Hansa_.

This arrangement, however, could be only temporary. The time could not

be far distant when ships’ sides and ordinary walls would fail to

give an adequate protection from the severity of the cold that must

be expected; the stock of fuel was too limited to keep up a permanent

supply of heat in their present quarters, and consequently they must

be driven to seek some other refuge, the internal temperature of which

would at least be bearable.

The plan that seemed to commend itself most to their consideration was,

that they should dig out for themselves some subterraneous pits similar

to “silos,” such as are used as receptacles for grain. They presumed

that when the surface of Gallia should be covered by a thick layer of

ice, which is a bad conductor of heat, a sufficient amount of warmth

for animal vitality might still be retained in excavations of this kind.

After a long consultation they failed to devise any better expedient,

and were forced to resign themselves to this species of troglodyte

existence.

In one respect they congratulated themselves that they should be better

off than many of the whalers in the polar seas, for as it is impossible

to get below the surface of a frozen ocean, these adventurers have to

seek refuge in huts of wood and snow erected on their ships, which at

best can give but slight protection from extreme cold; but here, with a

solid subsoil, the Gallians might hope to dig down a hundred feet or so

and secure for themselves a shelter that would enable them to brave the

hardest severity of climate.

The order, then, was at once given. The work was commenced. A stock of

shovels, mattocks, and pick-axes was brought from the gourbi, and with

Ben Zoof as overseer, both Spanish majos and Russian sailors set to work

with a will.

It was not long, however, before a discovery, more unexpected than

agreeable, suddenly arrested their labors. The spot chosen for the

excavation was a little to the right of the gourbi, on a slight

elevation of the soil. For the first day everything went on prosperously

enough; but at a depth of eight feet below the surface, the navvies came

in contact with a hard surface, upon which all their tools failed to

make the slightest impression. Servadac and the count were at once

apprised of the fact, and had little difficulty in recognizing the

substance that had revealed itself as the very same which composed the

shores as well as the subsoil of the Gallian sea. It evidently formed

the universal substructure of the new asteroid. Means for hollowing it

failed them utterly. Harder and more resisting than granite, it could

not be blasted by ordinary powder; dynamite alone could suffice to rend

it.

The disappointment was very great. Unless some means of protection were

speedily devised, death seemed to be staring them in the face. Were the

figures in the mysterious documents correct? If so, Gallia must now be

a hundred millions of leagues from the sun, nearly three times the

distance of the earth at the remotest section of her orbit. The

intensity of the solar light and heat, too, was very seriously

diminishing, although Gourbi Island (being on the equator of an orb

which had its axes always perpendicular to the plane in which it

revolved) enjoyed a position that gave it a permanent summer. But no

advantage of this kind could compensate for the remoteness of the sun.

The temperature fell steadily; already, to the discomfiture of the

little Italian girl, nurtured in sunshine, ice was beginning to form in

the crevices of the rocks, and manifestly the time was impending when

the sea itself would freeze.

Some shelter must be found before the temperature should fall to 60

degrees below zero. Otherwise death was inevitable. Hitherto, for the

last few days, the thermometer had been registering an average of about

6 degrees below zero, and it had become matter of experience that the

stove, although replenished with all the wood that was available, was

altogether inadequate to effect any sensible mitigation of the severity

of the cold. Nor could any amount of fuel be enough. It was certain

that ere long the very mercury and spirit in the thermometers would be

congealed. Some other resort must assuredly be soon found, or they must

perish. That was clear.

The idea of betaking themselves to the _Dobryna_ and _Hansa_ could not

for a moment be seriously entertained; not only did the structure of the

vessels make them utterly insufficient to give substantial shelter,

but they were totally unfitted to be trusted as to their stability when

exposed to the enormous pressure of the accumulated ice.

Neither Servadac, nor the count, nor Lieutenant Procope were men to

be easily disheartened, but it could not be concealed that they felt

themselves in circumstances by which they were equally harassed and

perplexed. The sole expedient that their united counsel could suggest

was to obtain a refuge below ground, and _that_ was denied them by the

strange and impenetrable substratum of the soil; yet hour by hour the

sun’s disc was lessening in its dimensions, and although at midday some

faint radiance and glow were to be distinguished, during the night the

painfulness of the cold was becoming almost intolerable.

Mounted upon Zephyr and Galette, the captain and the count scoured the

island in search of some available retreat. Scarcely a yard of ground

was left unexplored, the horses clearing every obstacle as if they were,

like Pegasus, furnished with wings. But all in vain. Soundings were made

again and again, but invariably with the same result; the rock, hard as

adamant, never failed to reveal itself within a few feet of the surface

of the ground.

The excavation of any silo being thus manifestly hopeless, there seemed

nothing to be done except to try and render the buildings alongside the

gourbi impervious to frost. To contribute to the supply of fuel, orders

were given to collect every scrap of wood, dry or green, that the island

produced; and this involved the necessity of felling the numerous

trees that were scattered over the plain. But toil as they might at the

accumulation of firewood, Captain Servadac and his companions could not

resist the conviction that the consumption of a very short period would

exhaust the total stock. And what would happen then?

Studious if possible to conceal his real misgivings, and anxious that

the rest of the party should be affected as little as might be by his

own uneasiness, Servadac would wander alone about the island, racking

his brain for an idea that would point the way out of the serious

difficulty. But still all in vain.

One day he suddenly came upon Ben Zoof, and asked him whether he had no

plan to propose. The orderly shook his head, but after a few moments’

pondering, said: “Ah! master, if only we were at Montmartre, we would

get shelter in the charming stone-quarries.”

“Idiot!” replied the captain, angrily, “if we were at Montmartre, you

don’t suppose that we should need to live in stone-quarries?”

But the means of preservation which human ingenuity had failed to secure

were at hand from the felicitous provision of Nature herself. It was on

the 10th of March that the captain and Lieutenant Procope started off

once more to investigate the northwest corner of the island; on their

way their conversation naturally was engrossed by the subject of

the dire necessities which only too manifestly were awaiting them. A

discussion more than usually animated arose between them, for the two

men were not altogether of the same mind as to the measures that ought

to be adopted in order to open the fairest chance of avoiding a fatal

climax to their exposure; the captain persisted that an entirely

new abode must be sought, while the lieutenant was equally bent upon

devising a method of some sort by which their present quarters might

be rendered sufficiently warm. All at once, in the very heat of his

argument, Procope paused; he passed his hand across his eyes, as if to

dispel a mist, and stood, with a fixed gaze centered on a point towards

the south. “What is that?” he said, with a kind of hesitation. “No, I am

not mistaken,” he added; “it is a light on the horizon.”

“A light!” exclaimed Servadac; “show me where.”

“Look there!” answered the lieutenant, and he kept pointing steadily in

its direction, until Servadac also distinctly saw the bright speck in

the distance.

It increased in clearness in the gathering shades of evening. “Can it be

a ship?” asked the captain.

“If so, it must be in flames; otherwise we should not be able to see it

so far off,” replied Procope.

“It does not move,” said Servadac; “and unless I am greatly deceived, I

can hear a kind of reverberation in the air.”

For some seconds the two men stood straining eyes and ears in rapt

attention. Suddenly an idea struck Servadac’s mind. “The volcano!” he

cried; “may it not be the volcano that we saw, whilst we were on board

the _Dobryna?_”

The lieutenant agreed that it was very probable.

“Heaven be praised!” ejaculated the captain, and he went on in the tones

of a keen excitement: “Nature has provided us with our winter quarters;

the stream of burning lava that is flowing there is the gift of a

bounteous Providence; it will provide us all the warmth we need. No time

to lose! To-morrow, my dear Procope, to-morrow we will explore it all;

no doubt the life, the heat we want is reserved for us in the heart and

bowels of our own Gallia!”

Whilst the captain was indulging in his expressions of enthusiasm,

Procope was endeavoring to collect his thoughts. Distinctly he

remembered the long promontory which had barred the _Dobryna’s_ progress

while coasting the southern confines of the sea, and which had obliged

her to ascend northwards as far as the former latitude of Oran; he

remembered also that at the extremity of the promontory there was a

rocky headland crowned with smoke; and now he was convinced that he was

right in identifying the position, and in believing that the smoke had

given place to an eruption of flame.

When Servadac gave him a chance of speaking, he said, “The more I

consider it, captain, the more I am satisfied that your conjecture is

correct. Beyond a doubt, what we see is the volcano, and to-morrow we

will not fail to visit it.”

On returning to the gourbi, they communicated their discovery to Count

Timascheff only, deeming any further publication of it to be premature.

The count at once placed his yacht at their disposal, and expressed his

intention of accompanying them.

“The yacht, I think,” said Procope, “had better remain where she is;

the weather is beautifully calm, and the steam-launch will answer our

purpose better; at any rate, it will convey us much closer to shore than

the schooner.”

The count replied that the lieutenant was by all means to use his own

discretion, and they all retired for the night.

Like many other modern pleasure-yachts, the _Dobryna_, in addition to

her four-oar, was fitted with a fast-going little steam-launch, its

screw being propelled, on the Oriolle system, by means of a boiler,

small but very effective. Early next morning, this handy little craft

was sufficiently freighted with coal (of which there was still about ten

tons on board the _Dobryna_), and manned by nobody except the captain,

the count, and the lieutenant, left the harbor of the Shelif, much to

the bewilderment of Ben Zoof, who had not yet been admitted into the

secret. The orderly, however, consoled himself with the reflection

that he had been temporarily invested with the full powers of governor

general, an office of which he was not a little proud.

The eighteen miles between the island and the headland were made in

something less than three hours. The volcanic eruption was manifestly

very considerable, the entire summit of the promontory being enveloped

in flames. To produce so large a combustion either the oxygen of

Gallia’s atmosphere had been brought into contact with the explosive

gases contained beneath her soil, or perhaps, still more probable, the

volcano, like those in the moon, was fed by an internal supply of oxygen

of her own.

It took more than half an hour to settle on a suitable landing-place.

At length, a small semi-circular creek was discovered among the rocks,

which appeared advantageous, because, if circumstances should so

require, it would form a safe anchorage for both the _Dobryna_ and the

_Hansa_.

The launch securely moored, the passengers landed on the side of the

promontory opposite to that on which a torrent of burning lava was

descending to the sea. With much satisfaction they experienced, as they

approached the mountain, a sensible difference in the temperature, and

their spirits could not do otherwise than rise at the prospect of having

their hopes confirmed, that a deliverance from the threatened calamity

had so opportunely been found. On they went, up the steep acclivity,

scrambling over its rugged projections, scaling the irregularities of

its gigantic strata, bounding from point to point with the agility of

chamois, but never alighting on anything except on the accumulation of

the same hexagonal prisms with which they had now become so familiar.

Their exertions were happily rewarded. Behind a huge pyramidal rock they

found a hole in the mountain-side, like the mouth of a great tunnel.

Climbing up to this orifice, which was more than sixty feet above the

level of the sea, they ascertained that it opened into a long dark

gallery. They entered and groped their way cautiously along the sides.

A continuous rumbling, that increased as they advanced, made them aware

that they must be approaching the central funnel of the volcano; their

only fear was lest some insuperable wall of rock should suddenly bar

their further progress.

Servadac was some distance ahead.

“Come on!” he cried cheerily, his voice ringing through the darkness,

“come on! Our fire is lighted! no stint of fuel! Nature provides that!

Let us make haste and warm ourselves!”

Inspired by his confidence, the count and the lieutenant advanced

bravely along the unseen and winding path. The temperature was now at

least fifteen degrees above zero, and the walls of the gallery were

beginning to feel quite warm to the touch, an indication, not to be

overlooked, that the substance of which the rock was composed was

metallic in its nature, and capable of conducting heat.

“Follow me!” shouted Servadac again; “we shall soon find a regular

stove!”

Onwards they made their way, until at last a sharp turn brought them

into a sudden flood of light. The tunnel had opened into a vast cavern,

and the gloom was exchanged for an illumination that was perfectly

dazzling. Although the temperature was high, it was not in any way

intolerable.

One glance was sufficient to satisfy the explorers that the grateful

light and heat of this huge excavation were to be attributed to a

torrent of lava that was rolling downwards to the sea, completely

subtending the aperture of the cave. Not inaptly might the scene be

compared to the celebrated Grotto of the Winds at the rear of the

central fall of Niagara, only with the exception that here, instead of

a curtain of rushing water, it was a curtain of roaring flame that hung

before the cavern’s mouth.

“Heaven be praised!” cried Servadac, with glad emotion; “here is all

that we hoped for, and more besides!”

CHAPTER XXI. WINTER QUARTERS

The habitation that had now revealed itself, well lighted and thoroughly

warm, was indeed marvelous. Not only would it afford ample accommodation

for Hector Servadac and “his subjects,” as Ben Zoof delighted to

call them, but it would provide shelter for the two horses, and for a

considerable number of domestic animals.

This enormous cavern was neither more or less than the common junction

of nearly twenty tunnels (similar to that which had been traversed by

the explorers), forming ramifications in the solid rock, and the pores,

as it were, by which the internal heat exuded from the heart of the

mountain. Here, as long as the volcano retained its activity, every

living creature on the new asteroid might brave the most rigorous of

climates; and as Count Timascheff justly remarked, since it was the only

burning mountain they had sighted, it was most probably the sole outlet

for Gallia’s subterranean fires, and consequently the eruption might

continue unchanged for ages to come.

But not a day, not an hour, was to be lost now. The steam-launch

returned to Gourbi Island, and preparations were forthwith taken in hand

for conveying man and beast, corn and fodder, across to the volcanic

headland. Loud and hearty were the acclamations of the little colony,

especially of the Spaniards, and great was the relief of Nina, when

Servadac announced to them the discovery of their future domicile; and

with requickened energies they labored hard at packing, anxious to reach

their genial winter quarters without delay.

For three successive days the _Dobryna_, laden to her very gunwale, made

a transit to and fro. Ben Zoof was left upon the island to superintend

the stowage of the freight, whilst Servadac found abundant occupation in

overlooking its disposal within the recesses of the mountain. First

of all, the large store of corn and fodder, the produce of the recent

harvest, was landed and deposited in one of the vaults; then, on the

15th, about fifty head of live cattle--bullocks, cows, sheep, and

pigs--were conveyed to their rocky stalls. These were saved for the sake

of preserving the several breeds, the bulk of the island cattle being

slaughtered, as the extreme severity of the climate insured all meat

remaining fresh for almost an indefinite period. The winter which they

were expecting would probably be of unprecedented length; it was quite

likely that it would exceed the six months’ duration by which many

arctic explorers have been tried; but the population of Gallia had

no anxiety in the matter of provisions--their stock was far more than

adequate; while as for drink, as long as they were satisfied with pure

water, a frozen sea would afford them an inexhaustible reservoir.

The need for haste in forwarding their preparations became more and more

manifest; the sea threatened to be un-navigable very soon, as ice was

already forming which the noonday sun was unable to melt. And if haste

were necessary, so also were care, ingenuity, and forethought. It

was indispensable that the space at their command should be properly

utilized, and yet that the several portions of the store should all be

readily accessible.

On further investigation an unexpected number of galleries was

discovered, so that, in fact, the interior of the mountain was like a

vast bee-hive perforated with innumerable cells; and in compliment to

the little Italian it was unanimously voted by the colony that their new

home should be called “Nina’s Hive.”

The first care of Captain Servadac was to ascertain how he could make

the best possible use of the heat which nature had provided for them

so opportunely and with so lavish a hand. By opening fresh vents in the

solid rock (which by the action of the heat was here capable of fissure)

the stream of burning lava was diverted into several new channels, where

it could be available for daily use; and thus Mochel, the _Dobryna’s_

cook, was furnished with an admirable kitchen, provided with a permanent

stove, where he was duly installed with all his culinary apparatus.

“What a saving of expense it would be,” exclaimed Ben Zoof, “if every

household could be furnished with its own private volcano!”

The large cavern at the general junction of the galleries was fitted up

as a drawing-room, and arranged with all the best furniture both of the

gourbi and of the cabin of the _Dobryna_. Hither was also brought the

schooner’s library, containing a good variety of French and Russian

books; lamps were suspended over the different tables; and the walls of

the apartment were tapestried with the sails and adorned with the flags

belonging to the yacht. The curtain of fire extending over the opening

of the cavern provided it, as already stated, with light and heat.

The torrent of lava fell into a small rock-bound basin that had no

apparent communication with the sea, and was evidently the aperture of

a deep abyss, of which the waters, heated by the descent of the eruptive

matter, would no doubt retain their liquid condition long after the

Gallian Sea had become a sheet of ice.

A small excavation to the left of the common hall was allotted for

the special use of Servadac and the count; another on the right was

appropriated to the lieutenant and Ben Zoof; whilst a third recess,

immediately at the back, made a convenient little chamber for Nina. The

Spaniards and the Russian sailors took up their sleeping-quarters in the

adjacent galleries, and found the temperature quite comfortable.

Such were the internal arrangements of Nina’s Hive, the refuge where

the little colony were full of hope that they would be able to brave

the rigors of the stern winter-time that lay before them--a winter-time

during which Gallia might possibly be projected even to the orbit of

Jupiter, where the temperature would not exceed one twenty-fifth of the

normal winter temperature of the earth.

The only discontented spirit was Isaac Hakkabut. Throughout all the

preparations which roused even the Spaniards to activity, the Jew,

still incredulous and deaf to every representation of the true state of

things, insisted upon remaining in the creek at Gourbi Island; nothing

could induce him to leave his tartan, where, like a miser, he would keep

guard over his precious cargo, ever grumbling and growling, but with his

weather-eye open in the hope of catching sight of some passing sail. It

must be owned that the whole party were far from sorry to be relieved

of his presence; his uncomely figure and repulsive countenance was

a perpetual bugbear. He had given out in plain terms that he did not

intend to part with any of his property, except for current money, and

Servadac, equally resolute, had strictly forbidden any purchases to be

made, hoping to wear out the rascal’s obstinacy.

Hakkabut persistently refused to credit the real situation; he could

not absolutely deny that some portions of the terrestrial globe had

undergone a certain degree of modification, but nothing could bring him

to believe that he was not, sooner or later, to résumé his old line of

business in the Mediterranean. With his wonted distrust of all with whom

he came in contact, he regarded every argument that was urged upon him

only as evidence of a plot that had been devised to deprive him of his

goods. Repudiating, as he did utterly, the hypothesis that a fragment

had become detached from the earth, he scanned the horizon for hours

together with an old telescope, the case of which had been patched up

till it looked like a rusty stove-pipe, hoping to descry the passing

trader with which he might effect some bartering upon advantageous

terms.

At first he professed to regard the proposed removal into

winter-quarters as an attempt to impose upon his credulity; but the

frequent voyages made by the _Dobryna_ to the south, and the repeated

consignments of corn and cattle, soon served to make him aware that

Captain Servadac and his companions were really contemplating a

departure from Gourbi Island.

The movement set him thinking. What, he began to ask himself--what

if all that was told him was true? What if this sea was no longer

the Mediterranean? What if he should never again behold his German

fatherland? What if his marts for business were gone for ever? A vague

idea of ruin began to take possession of his mind: he must yield

to necessity; he must do the best he could. As the result of his

cogitations, he occasionally left his tartan and made a visit to the

shore. At length he endeavored to mingle with the busy group, who were

hurrying on their preparations; but his advances were only met by jeers

and scorn, and, ridiculed by all the rest, he was fain to turn his

attention to Ben Zoof, to whom he offered a few pinches of tobacco.

“No, old Zebulon,” said Ben Zoof, steadily refusing the gift, “it is

against orders to take anything from you. Keep your cargo to yourself;

eat and drink it all if you can; we are not to touch it.”

Finding the subordinates incorruptible, Isaac determined to go to the

fountain-head. He addressed himself to Servadac, and begged him to tell

him the whole truth, piteously adding that surely it was unworthy of a

French officer to deceive a poor old man like himself.

“Tell you the truth, man!” cried Servadac. “Confound it, I have told

you the truth twenty times. Once for all, I tell you now, you have left

yourself barely time enough to make your escape to yonder mountain.”

“God and Mahomet have mercy on me!” muttered the Jew, whose creed

frequently assumed a very ambiguous character.

“I will tell you what,” continued the captain--“you shall have a few men

to work the _Hansa_ across, if you like.”

“But I want to go to Algiers,” whimpered Hakkabut.

“How often am I to tell you that Algiers is no longer in existence? Only

say yes or no--are you coming with us into winter-quarters?”

“God of Israel! what is to become of all my property?”

“But, mind you,” continued the captain, not heeding the interruption,

“if you do not choose voluntarily to come with us, I shall have the

_Hansa_, by my orders, removed to a place of safety. I am not going

to let your cursed obstinacy incur the risk of losing your cargo

altogether.”

“Merciful Heaven! I shall be ruined!” moaned Isaac, in despair.

“You are going the right way to ruin yourself, and it would serve you

right to leave you to your own devices. But be off! I have no more to

say.”

And, turning contemptuously on his heel, Servadac left the old man

vociferating bitterly, and with uplifted hands protesting vehemently

against the rapacity of the Gentiles.

By the 20th all preliminary arrangements were complete, and everything

ready for a final departure from the island. The thermometer stood on

an average at 8 degrees below zero, and the water in the cistern was

completely frozen. It was determined, therefore, for the colony to

embark on the following day, and take up their residence in Nina’s Hive.

A final consultation was held about the _Hansa_. Lieutenant Procope

pronounced his decided conviction that it would be impossible for the

tartan to resist the pressure of the ice in the harbor of the Shelif,

and that there would be far more safety in the proximity of the

volcano. It was agreed on all hands that the vessel must be shifted; and

accordingly orders were given, four Russian sailors were sent on board,

and only a few minutes elapsed after the _Dobryna_ had weighed anchor,

before the great lateen sail of the tartan was unfurled, and the

“shop-ship,” as Ben Zoof delighted to call it, was also on her way to

the southward.

Long and loud were the lamentations of the Jew. He kept exclaiming that

he had given no orders, that he was being moved against his will, that

he had asked for no assistance, and needed none; but it required no very

keen discrimination to observe that all along there was a lurking gleam

of satisfaction in his little gray eyes, and when, a few hours later, he

found himself securely anchored, and his property in a place of safety,

he quite chuckled with glee.

“God of Israel!” he said in an undertone, “they have made no charge; the

idiots have piloted me here for nothing.”

For nothing! His whole nature exulted in the consciousness that he was

enjoying a service that had been rendered gratuitously.

Destitute of human inhabitants, Gourbi Island was now left to the

tenancy of such birds and beasts as had escaped the recent promiscuous

slaughter. Birds, indeed, that had migrated in search of warmer shores,

had returned, proving that this fragment of the French colony was the

only shred of land that could yield them any sustenance; but their life

must necessarily be short. It was utterly impossible that they could

survive the cold that would soon ensue.

The colony took possession of their new abode with but few formalities.

Everyone, however, approved of all the internal arrangements of Nina’s

Hive, and were profuse in their expressions of satisfaction at finding

themselves located in such comfortable quarters. The only malcontent

was Hakkabut; he had no share in the general enthusiasm, refused even

to enter or inspect any of the galleries, and insisted on remaining on

board his tartan.

“He is afraid,” said Ben Zoof, “that he will have to pay for his

lodgings. But wait a bit; we shall see how he stands the cold out there;

the frost, no doubt, will drive the old fox out of his hole.”

Towards evening the pots were set boiling, and a bountiful supper, to

which all were invited, was spread in the central hall. The stores of

the _Dobryna_ contained some excellent wine, some of which was broached

to do honor to the occasion. The health of the governor general was

drunk, as well as the toast “Success to his council,” to which Ben Zoof

was called upon to return thanks. The entertainment passed off merrily.

The Spaniards were in the best of spirits; one of them played the

guitar, another the castanets, and the rest joined in a ringing chorus.

Ben Zoof contributed the famous Zouave refrain, well known throughout

the French army, but rarely performed in finer style than by this

_virtuoso:_

_“Misti goth dar dar tire lyre!

Flic! floc! flac! lirette, lira!

Far la rira,

Tour tala rire,

Tour la Ribaud,

Ricandeau,

Sans repos, repit, repit, repos, ris pot, ripette!

Si vous attrapez mon refrain,

Fameux vous etes.”_

The concert was succeeded by a ball, unquestionably the first that had

ever taken place in Gallia. The Russian sailors exhibited some of their

national dances, which gained considerable applause, even although they

followed upon the marvelous fandangos of the Spaniards. Ben Zoof, in

his turn, danced a _pas seul_ (often performed in the Elysee Montmartre)

with an elegance and vigor that earned many compliments from Negrete.

It was nine o’clock before the festivities came to an end, and by that

time the company, heated by the high temperature of the hall, and by

their own exertions, felt the want of a little fresh air. Accordingly

the greater portion of the party, escorted by Ben Zoof, made their way

into one of the adjacent galleries that led to the shore. Servadac,

with the count and lieutenant, did not follow immediately; but shortly

afterwards they proceeded to join them, when on their way they were

startled by loud cries from those in advance.

Their first impression was that they were cries of distress, and they

were greatly relieved to find that they were shouts of delight, which

the dryness and purity of the atmosphere caused to re-echo like a volley

of musketry.

Reaching the mouth of the gallery, they found the entire group pointing

with eager interest to the sky.

“Well, Ben Zoof,” asked the captain, “what’s the matter now?”

“Oh, your Excellency,” ejaculated the orderly, “look there! look there!

The moon! the moon’s come back!”

And, sure enough, what was apparently the moon was rising above the

mists of evening.

CHAPTER XXII. A FROZEN OCEAN

The moon! She had disappeared for weeks; was she now returning? Had

she been faithless to the earth? and had she now approached to be a

satellite of the new-born world?

“Impossible!” said Lieutenant Procope; “the earth is millions and

millions of leagues away, and it is not probable that the moon has

ceased to revolve about her.”

“Why not?” remonstrated Servadac. “It would not be more strange than the

other phenomena which we have lately witnessed. Why should not the moon

have fallen within the limits of Gallia’s attraction, and become her

satellite?”

“Upon that supposition,” put in the count, “I should think that it would

be altogether unlikely that three months would elapse without our seeing

her.”

“Quite incredible!” continued Procope. “And there is another thing which

totally disproves the captain’s hypothesis; the magnitude of Gallia

is far too insignificant for her power of attraction to carry off the

moon.”

“But,” persisted Servadac, “why should not the same convulsion that tore

us away from the earth have torn away the moon as well? After wandering

about as she would for a while in the solar regions, I do not see why

she should not have attached herself to us.”

The lieutenant repeated his conviction that it was not likely.

“But why not?” again asked Servadac impetuously.

“Because, I tell you, the mass of Gallia is so inferior to that of the

moon, that Gallia would become the moon’s satellite; the moon could not

possibly become hers.”

“Assuming, however,” continued Servadac, “such to be the case--”

“I am afraid,” said the lieutenant, interrupting him, “that I cannot

assume anything of the sort even for a moment.”

Servadac smiled good-humoredly.

“I confess you seem to have the best of the argument, and if Gallia had

become a satellite of the moon, it would not have taken three months to

catch sight of her. I suppose you are right.”

While this discussion had been going on, the satellite, or whatever it

might be, had been rising steadily above the horizon, and had reached a

position favorable for observation. Telescopes were brought, and it was

very soon ascertained, beyond a question, that the new luminary was not

the well-known Phoebe of terrestrial nights; it had no feature in common

with the moon. Although it was apparently much nearer to Gallia than the

moon to the earth, its superficies was hardly one-tenth as large, and

so feebly did it reflect the light of the remote sun, that it scarcely

emitted radiance enough to extinguish the dim luster of stars of the

eighth magnitude. Like the sun, it had risen in the west, and was now

at its full. To mistake its identity with the moon was absolutely

impossible; not even Servadac could discover a trace of the seas,

chasms, craters, and mountains which have been so minutely delineated

in lunar charts, and it could not be denied that any transient hope

that had been excited as to their once again being about to enjoy the

peaceful smiles of “the queen of night” must all be resigned.

Count Timascheff finally suggested, though somewhat doubtfully, the

question of the probability that Gallia, in her course across the zone

of the minor planets, had carried off one of them; but whether it

was one of the 169 asteroids already included in the astronomical

catalogues, or one previously unknown, he did not presume to determine.

The idea to a certain extent was plausible, inasmuch as it has been

ascertained that several of the telescopic planets are of such small

dimensions that a good walker might make a circuit of them in four and

twenty hours; consequently Gallia, being of superior volume, might be

supposed capable of exercising a power of attraction upon any of these

miniature microcosms.

The first night in Nina’s Hive passed without special incident; and

next morning a regular scheme of life was definitely laid down. “My lord

governor,” as Ben Zoof until he was peremptorily forbidden delighted to

call Servadac, had a wholesome dread of idleness and its consequences,

and insisted upon each member of the party undertaking some special

duty to fulfill. There was plenty to do. The domestic animals required

a great deal of attention; a supply of food had to be secured and

preserved; fishing had to be carried on while the condition of the sea

would allow it; and in several places the galleries had to be further

excavated to render them more available for use. Occupation, then, need

never be wanting, and the daily round of labor could go on in orderly

routine.

A perfect concord ruled the little colony. The Russians and Spaniards

amalgamated well, and both did their best to pick up various scraps

of French, which was considered the official language of the place.

Servadac himself undertook the tuition of Pablo and Nina, Ben Zoof being

their companion in play-hours, when he entertained them with enchanting

stories in the best Parisian French, about “a lovely city at the foot of

a mountain,” where he always promised one day to take them.

The end of March came, but the cold was not intense to such a degree

as to confine any of the party to the interior of their resort; several

excursions were made along the shore, and for a radius of three or

four miles the adjacent district was carefully explored. Investigation,

however, always ended in the same result; turn their course in whatever

direction they would, they found that the country retained everywhere

its desert character, rocky, barren, and without a trace of vegetation.

Here and there a slight layer of snow, or a thin coating of ice arising

from atmospheric condensation indicated the existence of superficial

moisture, but it would require a period indefinitely long, exceeding

human reckoning, before that moisture could collect into a stream and

roll downwards over the stony strata to the sea. It seemed at present

out of their power to determine whether the land upon which they were

so happily settled was an island or a continent, and till the cold was

abated they feared to undertake any lengthened expedition to ascertain

the actual extent of the strange concrete of metallic crystallization.

By ascending one day to the summit of the volcano, Captain Servadac

and the count succeeded in getting a general idea of the aspect of the

country. The mountain itself was an enormous block rising symmetrically

to a height of nearly 3,000 feet above the level of the sea, in the

form of a truncated cone, of which the topmost section was crowned by a

wreath of smoke issuing continuously from the mouth of a narrow crater.

Under the old condition of terrestrial things, the ascent of this steep

acclivity would have been attended with much fatigue, but as the effect

of the altered condition of the law of gravity, the travelers performed

perpetual prodigies in the way of agility, and in little over an hour

reached the edge of the crater, without more sense of exertion than if

they had traversed a couple of miles on level ground. Gallia had its

drawbacks, but it had some compensating advantages.

Telescopes in hand, the explorers from the summit scanned the

surrounding view. Their anticipations had already realized what they

saw. Just as they expected, on the north, east, and west lay the Gallian

Sea, smooth and motionless as a sheet of glass, the cold having, as it

were, congealed the atmosphere so that there was not a breath of wind.

Towards the south there seemed no limit to the land, and the volcano

formed the apex of a triangle, of which the base was beyond the reach of

vision. Viewed even from this height, whence distance would do much

to soften the general asperity, the surface nevertheless seemed to

be bristling with its myriads of hexagonal lamellae, and to present

difficulties which, to an ordinary pedestrian, would be insurmountable.

“Oh for some wings, or else a balloon!” cried Servadac, as he gazed

around him; and then, looking down to the rock upon which they were

standing, he added, “We seem to have been transplanted to a soil strange

enough in its chemical character to bewilder the _savants_ at a museum.”

“And do you observe, captain,” asked the count, “how the convexity

of our little world curtails our view? See, how circumscribed is the

horizon!”

Servadac replied that he had noticed the same circumstance from the top

of the cliffs of Gourbi Island.

“Yes,” said the count; “it becomes more and more obvious that ours is a

very tiny world, and that Gourbi Island is the sole productive spot upon

its surface. We have had a short summer, and who knows whether we

are not entering upon a winter that may last for years, perhaps for

centuries?”

“But we must not mind, count,” said Servadac, smiling. “We have agreed,

you know, that, come what may, we are to be philosophers.”

“Ay, true, my friend,” rejoined the count; “we must be philosophers

and something more; we must be grateful to the good Protector who has

hitherto befriended us, and we must trust His mercy to the end.”

For a few moments they both stood in silence, and contemplated land and

sea; then, having given a last glance over the dreary panorama, they

prepared to wend their way down the mountain. Before, however, they

commenced their descent, they resolved to make a closer examination of

the crater. They were particularly struck by what seemed to them almost

the mysterious calmness with which the eruption was effected. There was

none of the wild disorder and deafening tumult that usually accompany

the discharge of volcanic matter, but the heated lava, rising with a

uniform gentleness, quietly overran the limits of the crater, like the

flow of water from the bosom of a peaceful lake. Instead of a boiler

exposed to the action of an angry fire, the crater rather resembled a

brimming basin, of which the contents were noiselessly escaping. Nor

were there any igneous stones or red-hot cinders mingled with the smoke

that crowned the summit; a circumstance that quite accorded with the

absence of the pumice-stones, obsidians, and other minerals of volcanic

origin with which the base of a burning mountain is generally strewn.

Captain Servadac was of opinion that this peculiarity augured favorably

for the continuance of the eruption. Extreme violence in physical, as

well as in moral nature, is never of long duration. The most terrible

storms, like the most violent fits of passion, are not lasting; but here

the calm flow of the liquid fire appeared to be supplied from a source

that was inexhaustible, in the same way as the waters of Niagara,

gliding on steadily to their final plunge, would defy all effort to

arrest their course.

Before the evening of this day closed in, a most important change was

effected in the condition of the Gallian Sea by the intervention of

human agency. Notwithstanding the increasing cold, the sea, unruffled

as it was by a breath of wind, still retained its liquid state. It is an

established fact that water, under this condition of absolute stillness,

will remain uncongealed at a temperature several degrees below zero,

whilst experiment, at the same time, shows that a very slight shock will

often be sufficient to convert it into solid ice. It had occurred to

Servadac that if some communication could be opened with Gourbi Island,

there would be a fine scope for hunting expeditions. Having this

ultimate object in view, he assembled his little colony upon a

projecting rock at the extremity of the promontory, and having called

Nina and Pablo out to him in front, he said: “Now, Nina, do you think

you could throw something into the sea?”

“I think I could,” replied the child, “but I am sure that Pablo would

throw it a great deal further than I can.”

“Never mind, you shall try first.”

Putting a fragment of ice into Nina’s hand, he addressed himself to

Pablo:

“Look out, Pablo; you shall see what a nice little fairy Nina is! Throw,

Nina, throw, as hard as you can.”

Nina balanced the piece of ice two or three times in her hand, and threw

it forward with all her strength.

A sudden thrill seemed to vibrate across the motionless waters to the

distant horizon, and the Gallian Sea had become a solid sheet of ice!

CHAPTER XXIII. A CARRIER-PIGEON

When, three hours after sunset, on the 23d of March, the Gallian moon

rose upon the western horizon, it was observed that she had entered upon

her last quarter. She had taken only four days to pass from syzygy to

quadrature, and it was consequently evident that she would be visible

for little more than a week at a time, and that her lunation would be

accomplished within sixteen days. The lunar months, like the solar

days, had been diminished by one-half. Three days later the moon was in

conjunction with the sun, and was consequently lost to view; Ben Zoof,

as the first observer of the satellite, was extremely interested in its

movements, and wondered whether it would ever reappear.

On the 26th, under an atmosphere perfectly clear and dry, the

thermometer fell to 12 degrees F. below zero. Of the present distance of

Gallia from the sun, and the number of leagues she had traversed since

the receipt of the last mysterious document, there were no means of

judging; the extent of diminution in the apparent disc of the sun did

not afford sufficient basis even for an approximate calculation; and

Captain Servadac was perpetually regretting that they could receive no

further tidings from the anonymous correspondent, whom he persisted in

regarding as a fellow-countryman.

The solidity of the ice was perfect; the utter stillness of the air at

the time when the final congelation of the waters had taken place had

resulted in the formation of a surface that for smoothness would rival

a skating-rink; without a crack or flaw it extended far beyond the range

of vision.

The contrast to the ordinary aspect of polar seas was very remarkable.

There, the ice-fields are an agglomeration of hummocks and icebergs,

massed in wild confusion, often towering higher than the masts of the

largest whalers, and from the instability of their foundations liable

to an instantaneous loss of equilibrium; a breath of wind, a slight

modification of the temperature, not unfrequently serving to bring about

a series of changes outrivaling the most elaborate transformation scenes

of a pantomime. Here, on the contrary, the vast white plain was level as

the desert of Sahara or the Russian steppes; the waters of the Gallian

Sea were imprisoned beneath the solid sheet, which became continually

stouter in the increasing cold.

Accustomed to the uneven crystallizations of their own frozen seas, the

Russians could not be otherwise than delighted with the polished

surface that afforded them such excellent opportunity for enjoying

their favorite pastime of skating. A supply of skates, found hidden

away amongst the _Dobryna’s_ stores, was speedily brought into use. The

Russians undertook the instruction of the Spaniards, and at the end of

a few days, during which the temperature was only endurable through the

absence of wind, there was not a Gallian who could not skate tolerably

well, while many of them could describe figures involving the most

complicated curves. Nina and Pablo earned loud applause by their rapid

proficiency; Captain Servadac, an adept in athletics, almost outvied his

instructor, the count; and Ben Zoof, who had upon some rare occasions

skated upon the Lake of Montmartre (in his eyes, of course, a sea),

performed prodigies in the art.

This exercise was not only healthful in itself, but it was acknowledged

that, in case of necessity, it might become a very useful means of

locomotion. As Captain Servadac remarked, it was almost a substitute for

railways, and as if to illustrate this proposition, Lieutenant Procope,

perhaps the greatest expert in the party, accomplished the twenty miles

to Gourbi Island and back in considerably less than four hours.

The temperature, meanwhile, continued to decrease, and the average

reading of the thermometer was about 16 degrees F. below zero; the light

also diminished in proportion, and all objects appeared to be enveloped

in a half-defined shadow, as though the sun were undergoing a perpetual

eclipse. It was not surprising that the effect of this continuously

overhanging gloom should be to induce a frequent depression of spirits

amongst the majority of the little population, exiles as they were from

their mother earth, and not unlikely, as it seemed, to be swept far away

into the regions of another planetary sphere. Probably Count Timascheff,

Captain Servadac, and Lieutenant Procope were the only members of the

community who could bring any scientific judgment to bear upon the

uncertainty that was before them, but a general sense of the strangeness

of their situation could not fail at times to weigh heavily upon

the minds of all. Under these circumstances it was very necessary to

counteract the tendency to despond by continual diversion; and the

recreation of skating thus opportunely provided, seemed just the thing

to arouse the flagging spirits, and to restore a wholesome excitement.

With dogged obstinacy, Isaac Hakkabut refused to take any share either

in the labors or the amusements of the colony. In spite of the cold,

he had not been seen since the day of his arrival from Gourbi Island.

Captain Servadac had strictly forbidden any communication with him; and

the smoke that rose from the cabin chimney of the _Hansa_ was the sole

indication of the proprietor being still on board. There was nothing to

prevent him, if he chose, from partaking gratuitously of the volcanic

light and heat which were being enjoyed by all besides; but rather

than abandon his close and personal oversight of his precious cargo, he

preferred to sacrifice his own slender stock of fuel.

Both the schooner and the tartan had been carefully moored in the way

that seemed to promise best for withstanding the rigor of the winter.

After seeing the vessels made secure in the frozen creek. Lieutenant

Procope, following the example of many Arctic explorers, had the

precaution to have the ice beveled away from the keels, so that there

should be no risk of the ships’ sides being crushed by the increasing

pressure; he hoped that they would follow any rise in the level of the

ice-field, and when the thaw should come, that they would easily regain

their proper water-line.

On his last visit to Gourbi Island, the lieutenant had ascertained that

north, east, and west, far as the eye could reach, the Gallian Sea had

become one uniform sheet of ice. One spot alone refused to freeze; this

was the pool immediately below the central cavern, the receptacle for

the stream of burning lava. It was entirely enclosed by rocks, and if

ever a few icicles were formed there by the action of the cold, they

were very soon melted by the fiery shower. Hissing and spluttering as

the hot lava came in contact with it, the water was in a continual

state of ebullition, and the fish that abounded in its depths defied

the angler’s craft; they were, as Ben Zoof remarked, “too much boiled to

bite.”

At the beginning of April the weather changed. The sky became overcast,

but there was no rise in the temperature. Unlike the polar winters of

the earth, which ordinarily are affected by atmospheric influence, and

liable to slight intermissions of their severity at various shiftings

of the wind, Gallia’s winter was caused by her immense distance from the

source of all light and heat, and the cold was consequently destined

to go on steadily increasing until it reached the limit ascertained by

Fourier to be the normal temperature of the realms of space.

With the over-clouding of the heavens there arose a violent tempest;

but although the wind raged with an almost inconceivable fury, it

was unaccompanied by either snow or rain. Its effect upon the burning

curtain that covered the aperture of the central hall was very

remarkable. So far from there being any likelihood of the fire being

extinguished by the vehemence of the current of air, the hurricane

seemed rather to act as a ventilator, which fanned the flame into

greater activity, and the utmost care was necessary to avoid being burnt

by the fragments of lava that were drifted into the interior of the

grotto. More than once the curtain itself was rifted entirely asunder,

but only to close up again immediately after allowing a momentary

draught of cold air to penetrate the hall in a way that was refreshing

and rather advantageous than otherwise.

On the 4th of April, after an absence of about four days, the new

satellite, to Ben Zoof’s great satisfaction, made its reappearance in

a crescent form, a circumstance that seemed to justify the anticipation

that henceforward it would continue to make a periodic revolution every

fortnight.

The crust of ice and snow was far too stout for the beaks of the

strongest birds to penetrate, and accordingly large swarms had left the

island, and, following the human population, had taken refuge on the

volcanic promontory; not that there the barren shore had anything in the

way of nourishment to offer them, but their instinct impelled them to

haunt now the very habitations which formerly they would have shunned.

Scraps of food were thrown to them from the galleries; these were

speedily devoured, but were altogether inadequate in quantity to meet

the demand. At length, emboldened by hunger, several hundred birds

ventured through the tunnel, and took up their quarters actually in

Nina’s Hive. Congregating in the large hall, the half-famished creatures

did not hesitate to snatch bread, meat, or food of any description from

the hands of the residents as they sat at table, and soon became such an

intolerable nuisance that it formed one of the daily diversions to hunt

them down; but although they were vigorously attacked by stones and

sticks, and even occasionally by shot, it was with some difficulty that

their number could be sensibly reduced.

By a systematic course of warfare the bulk of the birds were all

expelled, with the exception of about a hundred, which began to build in

the crevices of the rocks. These were left in quiet possession of their

quarters, as not only was it deemed advisable to perpetuate the various

breeds, but it was found that these birds acted as a kind of police,

never failing either to chase away or to kill any others of their

species who infringed upon what they appeared to regard as their own

special privilege in intruding within the limits of their domain.

On the 15th loud cries were suddenly heard issuing from the mouth of the

principal gallery.

“Help, help! I shall be killed!”

Pablo in a moment recognized the voice as Nina’s. Outrunning even Ben

Zoof he hurried to the assistance of his little playmate, and discovered

that she was being attacked by half a dozen great sea-gulls, and only

after receiving some severe blows from their beaks could he succeed by

means of a stout cudgel in driving them away.

“Tell me, Nina, what is this?” he asked as soon as the tumult had

subsided.

The child pointed to a bird which she was caressing tenderly in her

bosom.

“A pigeon!” exclaimed Ben Zoof, who had reached the scene of commotion,

adding:

“A carrier-pigeon! And by all the saints of Montmartre, there is a

little bag attached to its neck!”

He took the bird, and rushing into the hall placed it in Servadac’s

hands.

“Another message, no doubt,” cried the captain, “from our unknown

friend. Let us hope that this time he has given us his name and

address.”

All crowded round, eager to hear the news. In the struggle with the

gulls the bag had been partially torn open, but still contained the

following dispatch:

“Gallia!

Chemin parcouru du 1er Mars au 1er Avril: 39,000,000 l.!

Distance du soleil: 110,000,000 l.!

Capte Nerina en passant.

Vivres vont manquer et...”

The rest of the document had been so damaged by the beaks of the gulls

that it was illegible. Servadac was wild with vexation. He felt more and

more convinced that the writer was a Frenchman, and that the last

line indicated that he was in distress from scarcity of food. The

very thought of a fellow-countryman in peril of starvation drove him

well-nigh to distraction, and it was in vain that search was made

everywhere near the scene of conflict in hopes of finding the missing

scrap that might bear a signature or address.

Suddenly little Nina, who had again taken possession of the pigeon, and

was hugging it to her breast, said:

“Look here, Ben Zoof!”

And as she spoke she pointed to the left wing of the bird. The wing bore

the faint impress of a postage-stamp, and the one word: “FORMENTERA.”

CHAPTER XXIV. A SLEDGE-RIDE

Formentera was at once recognized by Servadac and the count as the

name of one of the smallest of the Balearic Islands. It was more than

probable that the unknown writer had thence sent out the mysterious

documents, and from the message just come to hand by the carrier-pigeon,

it appeared all but certain that at the beginning of April, a fortnight

back, he had still been there. In one important particular the present

communication differed from those that had preceded it: it was written

entirely in French, and exhibited none of the ecstatic exclamations in

other languages that had been remarkable in the two former papers. The

concluding line, with its intimation of failing provisions, amounted

almost to an appeal for help. Captain Servadac briefly drew attention

to these points, and concluded by saying, “My friends, we must, without

delay, hasten to the assistance of this unfortunate man.”

“For my part,” said the count, “I am quite ready to accompany you; it is

not unlikely that he is not alone in his distress.”

Lieutenant Procope expressed much surprise. “We must have passed close

to Formentera,” he said, “when we explored the site of the Balearic

Isles; this fragment must be very small; it must be smaller than the

remaining splinter of Gibraltar or Ceuta; otherwise, surely it would

never have escaped our observation.”

“However small it may be,” replied Servadac, “we must find it. How far

off do you suppose it is?”

“It must be a hundred and twenty leagues away,” said the lieutenant,

thoughtfully; “and I do not quite understand how you would propose to

get there.”

“Why, on skates of course; no difficulty in that, I should imagine,”

answered Servadac, and he appealed to the count for confirmation of his

opinion.

The count assented, but Procope looked doubtful.

“Your enterprise is generous,” he said, “and I should be most unwilling

to throw any unnecessary obstacle in the way of its execution; but,

pardon me, if I submit to you a few considerations which to my mind

are very important. First of all, the thermometer is already down to

22 degrees below zero, and the keen wind from the south is making the

temperature absolutely unendurable; in the second place, supposing you

travel at the rate of twenty leagues a day, you would be exposed for

at least six consecutive days; and thirdly, your expedition will be of

small avail unless you convey provisions not only for yourselves, but

for those whom you hope to relieve.”

“We can carry our own provisions on our backs in knapsacks,” interposed

Servadac, quickly, unwilling to recognize any difficulty in the way.

“Granted that you can,” answered the lieutenant, quietly; “but where, on

this level ice-field, will you find shelter in your periods of rest?

You must perish with cold; you will not have the chance of digging out

ice-huts like the Esquimaux.”

“As to rest,” said Servadac, “we shall take none; we shall keep on our

way continuously; by traveling day and night without intermission, we

shall not be more than three days in reaching Formentera.”

“Believe me,” persisted the lieutenant, calmly, “your enthusiasm is

carrying you too far; the feat you propose is impossible; but even

conceding the possibility of your success in reaching your destination,

what service do you imagine that you, half-starved and half-frozen

yourself, could render to those who are already perishing by want and

exposure? you would only bring them away to die.”

The obvious and dispassionate reasoning of the lieutenant could not fail

to impress the minds of those who listened to him; the impracticability

of the journey became more and more apparent; unprotected on that drear

expanse, any traveler must assuredly succumb to the snow-drifts that

were continually being whirled across it. But Hector Servadac, animated

by the generous desire of rescuing a suffering fellow-creature, could

scarcely be brought within the bounds of common sense. Against his

better judgment he was still bent upon the expedition, and Ben Zoof

declared himself ready to accompany his master in the event of Count

Timascheff hesitating to encounter the peril which the undertaking

involved. But the count entirely repudiated all idea of shrinking from

what, quite as much as the captain, he regarded as a sacred duty, and

turning to Lieutenant Procope, told him that unless some better plan

could be devised, he was prepared to start off at once and make the

attempt to skate across to Formentera. The lieutenant, who was lost in

thought, made no immediate reply.

“I wish we had a sledge,” said Ben Zoof.

“I dare say that a sledge of some sort could be contrived,” said the

count; “but then we should have no dogs or reindeers to draw it.”

“Why not rough-shoe the two horses?”

“They would never be able to endure the cold,” objected the count.

“Never mind,” said Servadac, “let us get our sledge and put them to the

test. Something must be done!”

“I think,” said Lieutenant Procope, breaking his thoughtful silence,

“that I can tell you of a sledge already provided for your hand, and I

can suggest a motive power surer and swifter than horses.”

“What do you mean?” was the eager inquiry.

“I mean the _Dobryna_‘s yawl,” answered the lieutenant; “and I have no

doubt that the wind would carry her rapidly along the ice.”

The idea seemed admirable. Lieutenant Procope was well aware to what

marvelous perfection the Americans had brought their sail-sledges, and

had heard how in the vast prairies of the United States they had been

known to outvie the speed of an express train, occasionally attaining

a rate of more than a hundred miles an hour. The wind was still blowing

hard from the south, and assuming that the yawl could be propelled

with a velocity of about fifteen or at least twelve leagues an hour, he

reckoned that it was quite possible to reach Formentera within twelve

hours, that is to say, in a single day between the intervals of sunrise

and sunrise.

The yawl was about twelve feet long, and capable of holding five or six

people. The addition of a couple of iron runners would be all that was

requisite to convert it into an excellent sledge, which, if a sail

were hoisted, might be deemed certain to make a rapid progress over the

smooth surface of the ice. For the protection of the passengers it was

proposed to erect a kind of wooden roof lined with strong cloth; beneath

this could be packed a supply of provisions, some warm furs, some

cordials, and a portable stove to be heated by spirits of wine.

For the outward journey the wind was as favorable as could be desired;

but it was to be apprehended that, unless the direction of the wind

should change, the return would be a matter of some difficulty; a system

of tacking might be carried out to a certain degree, but it was not

likely that the yawl would answer her helm in any way corresponding to

what would occur in the open sea. Captain Servadac, however, would not

listen to any representation of probable difficulties; the future, he

said, must provide for itself.

The engineer and several of the sailors set vigorously to work, and

before the close of the day the yawl was furnished with a pair of stout

iron runners, curved upwards in front, and fitted with a metal scull

designed to assist in maintaining the directness of her course; the roof

was put on, and beneath it were stored the provisions, the wraps, and

the cooking utensils.

A strong desire was expressed by Lieutenant Procope that he should be

allowed to accompany Captain Servadac instead of Count Timascheff. It

was unadvisable for all three of them to go, as, in case of there being

several persons to be rescued, the space at their command would be

quite inadequate. The lieutenant urged that he was the most experienced

seaman, and as such was best qualified to take command of the sledge

and the management of the sails; and as it was not to be expected that

Servadac would resign his intention of going in person to relieve his

fellow-countryman, Procope submitted his own wishes to the count. The

count was himself very anxious to have his share in the philanthropic

enterprise, and demurred considerably to the proposal; he yielded,

however, after a time, to Servadac’s representations that in the event

of the expedition proving disastrous, the little colony would need his

services alike as governor and protector, and overcoming his reluctance

to be left out of the perilous adventure, was prevailed upon to remain

behind for the general good of the community at Nina’s Hive.

At sunrise on the following morning, the 16th of April, Captain Servadac

and the lieutenant took their places in the yawl. The thermometer was

more than 20 degrees below zero, and it was with deep emotion that their

companions beheld them thus embarking upon the vast white plain. Ben

Zoof’s heart was too full for words; Count Timascheff could not forbear

pressing his two brave friends to his bosom; the Spaniards and the

Russian sailors crowded round for a farewell shake of the hand, and

little Nina, her great eyes flooded with tears, held up her face for a

parting kiss. The sad scene was not permitted to be long. The sail was

quickly hoisted, and the sledge, just as if it had expanded a huge white

wing, was in a little while carried far away beyond the horizon.

Light and unimpeded, the yawl scudded on with incredible speed. Two

sails, a brigantine and a jib, were arranged to catch the wind to the

greatest advantage, and the travelers estimated that their progress

would be little under the rate of twelve leagues an hour. The motion of

their novel vehicle was singularly gentle, the oscillation being less

than that of an ordinary railway-carriage, while the diminished force of

gravity contributed to the swiftness. Except that the clouds of ice-dust

raised by the metal runners were an evidence that they had not actually

left the level surface of the ice, the captain and lieutenant might

again and again have imagined that they were being conveyed through the

air in a balloon.

Lieutenant Procope, with his head all muffled up for fear of frost-bite,

took an occasional peep through an aperture that had been intentionally

left in the roof, and by the help of a compass, maintained a proper and

straight course for Formentera. Nothing could be more dejected than the

aspect of that frozen sea; not a single living creature relieved the

solitude; both the travelers, Procope from a scientific point of view,

Servadac from an aesthetic, were alike impressed by the solemnity of the

scene, and where the lengthened shadow of the sail cast upon the ice by

the oblique rays of the setting sun had disappeared, and day had

given place to night, the two men, drawn together as by an involuntary

impulse, mutually held each other’s hands in silence.

There had been a new moon on the previous evening; but, in the absence

of moonlight, the constellations shone with remarkable brilliancy.

The new pole-star close upon the horizon was resplendent, and even had

Lieutenant Procope been destitute of a compass, he would have had no

difficulty in holding his course by the guidance of that alone. However

great was the distance that separated Gallia from the sun, it was after

all manifestly insignificant in comparison with the remoteness of the

nearest of the fixed stars.

Observing that Servadac was completely absorbed in his own thoughts,

Lieutenant Procope had leisure to contemplate some of the present

perplexing problems, and to ponder over the true astronomical position.

The last of the three mysterious documents had represented that Gallia,

in conformity with Kepler’s second law, had traveled along her orbit

during the month of March twenty millions of leagues less than she had

done in the previous month; yet, in the same time, her distance from the

sun had nevertheless been increased by thirty-two millions of leagues.

She was now, therefore, in the center of the zone of telescopic planets

that revolve between the orbits of Mars and Jupiter, and had captured

for herself a satellite which, according to the document, was Nerina,

one of the asteroids most recently identified. If thus, then, it was

within the power of the unknown writer to estimate with such apparent

certainty Gallia’s exact position, was it not likely that his

mathematical calculations would enable him to arrive at some definite

conclusion as to the date at which she would begin again to approach the

sun? Nay, was it not to be expected that he had already estimated, with

sufficient approximation to truth, what was to be the true length of the

Gallian year?

So intently had they each separately been following their own train of

thought, that daylight reappeared almost before the travelers were aware

of it. On consulting their instruments, they found that they must have

traveled close upon a hundred leagues since they started, and they

resolved to slacken their speed. The sails were accordingly taken in

a little, and in spite of the intensity of the cold, the explorers

ventured out of their shelter, in order that they might reconnoiter

the plain, which was apparently as boundless as ever. It was completely

desert; not so much as a single point of rock relieved the bare

uniformity of its surface.

“Are we not considerably to the west of Formentera?” asked Servadac,

after examining the chart.

“Most likely,” replied Procope. “I have taken the same course as I

should have done at sea, and I have kept some distance to windward of

the island; we can bear straight down upon it whenever we like.”

“Bear down then, now; and as quickly as you can.”

The yawl was at once put with her head to the northeast and Captain

Servadac, in defiance of the icy blast, remained standing at the bow,

his gaze fixed on the horizon.

All at once his eye brightened.

“Look! look!” he exclaimed, pointing to a faint outline that broke the

monotony of the circle that divided the plain from the sky.

In an instant the lieutenant had seized his telescope.

“I see what you mean,” said he; “it is a pylone that has been used for

some geodesic survey.”

The next moment the sail was filled, and the yawl was bearing down upon

the object with inconceivable swiftness, both Captain Servadac and the

lieutenant too excited to utter a word. Mile after mile the distance

rapidly grew less, and as they drew nearer the pylone they could

see that it was erected on a low mass of rocks that was the sole

interruption to the dull level of the field of ice. No wreath of

smoke rose above the little island; it was manifestly impossible, they

conceived, that any human being could there have survived the cold; the

sad presentiment forced itself upon their minds that it was a mere cairn

to which they had been hurrying.

Ten minutes later, and they were so near the rock that the lieutenant

took in his sail, convinced that the impetus already attained would

be sufficient to carry him to the land. Servadac’s heart bounded as he

caught sight of a fragment of blue canvas fluttering in the wind from

the top of the pylone: it was all that now remained of the French

national standard. At the foot of the pylone stood a miserable shed, its

shutters tightly closed. No other habitation was to be seen; the entire

island was less than a quarter of a mile in circumference; and the

conclusion was irresistible that it was the sole surviving remnant of

Formentera, once a member of the Balearic Archipelago.

To leap on shore, to clamber over the slippery stones, and to reach the

cabin was but the work of a few moments. The worm-eaten door was bolted

on the inside. Servadac began to knock with all his might. No answer.

Neither shouting nor knocking could draw forth a reply.

“Let us force it open, Procope!” he said.

The two men put their shoulders to the door, which soon yielded to their

vigorous efforts, and they found themselves inside the shed, and in

almost total darkness. By opening a shutter they admitted what daylight

they could. At first sight the wretched place seemed to be deserted; the

little grate contained the ashes of a fire long since extinguished; all

looked black and desolate. Another instant’s investigation, however,

revealed a bed in the extreme corner, and extended on the bed a human

form.

“Dead!” sighed Servadac; “dead of cold and hunger!”

Lieutenant Procope bent down and anxiously contemplated the body.

“No; he is alive!” he said, and drawing a small flask from his pocket he

poured a few drops of brandy between the lips of the senseless man.

There was a faint sigh, followed by a feeble voice, which uttered the

one word, “Gallia?”

“Yes, yes! Gallia!” echoed Servadac, eagerly.

“My comet, my comet!” said the voice, so low as to be almost inaudible,

and the unfortunate man relapsed again into unconsciousness.

“Where have I seen this man?” thought Servadac to himself; “his face is

strangely familiar to me.”

But it was no time for deliberation. Not a moment was to be lost in

getting the unconscious astronomer away from his desolate quarters.

He was soon conveyed to the yawl; his books, his scanty wardrobe, his

papers, his instruments, and the blackboard which had served for

his calculations, were quickly collected; the wind, by a fortuitous

Providence, had shifted into a favorable quarter; they set their sail

with all speed, and ere long were on their journey back from Formentera.

Thirty-six hours later, the brave travelers were greeted by the

acclamations of their fellow-colonists, who had been most anxiously

awaiting their reappearance, and the still senseless _savant_, who had

neither opened his eyes nor spoken a word throughout the journey, was

safely deposited in the warmth and security of the great hall of Nina’s

Hive.

END OF FIRST BOOK

BOOK II.

CHAPTER I. THE ASTRONOMER

By the return of the expedition, conveying its contribution from

Formentera, the known population of Gallia was raised to a total of

thirty-six.

On learning the details of his friends’ discoveries, Count Timascheff

did not hesitate in believing that the exhausted individual who was

lying before him was the author alike of the two unsigned documents

picked up at sea, and of the third statement so recently brought to hand

by the carrier-pigeon. Manifestly, he had arrived at some knowledge of

Gallia’s movements: he had estimated her distance from the sun; he had

calculated the diminution of her tangential speed; but there was nothing

to show that he had arrived at the conclusions which were of the most

paramount interest to them all. Had he ascertained the true character of

her orbit? had he established any data from which it would be possible

to reckon what time must elapse before she would again approach the

earth?

The only intelligible words which the astronomer had uttered had been,

“My comet!”

To what could the exclamation refer? Was it to be conjectured that a

fragment of the earth had been chipped off by the collision of a comet?

and if so, was it implied that the name of the comet itself was Gallia,

and were they mistaken in supposing that such was the name given by the

_savant_ to the little world that had been so suddenly launched

into space? Again and again they discussed these questions; but no

satisfactory answer could be found. The only man who was able to throw

any light upon the subject was lying amongst them in an unconscious and

half-dying condition.

Apart from motives of humanity, motives of self-interest made it a

matter of the deepest concern to restore animation to that senseless

form. Ben Zoof, after making the encouraging remark that _savants_ have

as many lives as a cat, proceeded, with Negrete’s assistance, to give

the body such a vigorous rubbing as would have threatened serious

injury to any ordinary mortal, whilst they administered cordials and

restoratives from the _Dobryna’s_ medical stores powerful enough, one

might think, to rouse the very dead.

Meanwhile the captain was racking his brain in his exertions to recall

what were the circumstances of his previous acquaintance with the

Frenchman upon whose features he was gazing; he only grew more and more

convinced that he had once been familiar with them. Perhaps it was not

altogether surprising that he had almost forgotten him; he had never

seen him since the days of his youth, that time of life which, with a

certain show of justice, has been termed the age of ingratitude; for,

in point of fact, the astronomer was none other than Professor Palmyrin

Rosette, Servadac’s old science-master at the Lycee Charlemagne.

After completing his year of elementary studies, Hector Servadac had

entered the school at Saint Cyr, and from that time he and his former

tutor had never met, so that naturally they would well-nigh pass from

each other’s recollection. One thing, however, on the other hand, might

conduce to a mutual and permanent impression on their memories; during

the year at the Lycee, young Servadac, never of a very studious turn

of mind, had contrived, as the ringleader of a set of like caliber as

himself, to lead the poor professor a life of perpetual torment. On the

discovery of each delinquency he would fume and rage in a manner that

was a source of unbounded delight to his audience.

Two years after Servadac left the Lycee, Professor Rosette had thrown

up all educational employment in order that he might devote himself

entirely to the study of astronomy. He endeavored to obtain a post

at the Observatory, but his ungenial character was so well known in

scientific circles that he failed in his application; however, having

some small private means, he determined on his own account to carry on

his researches without any official salary. He had really considerable

genius for the science that he had adopted; besides discovering three of

the latest of the telescopic planets, he had worked out the elements of

the three hundred and twenty-fifth comet in the catalogue; but his chief

delight was to criticize the publications of other astronomers, and

he was never better pleased than when he detected a flaw in their

reckonings.

When Ben Zoof and Negrete had extricated their patient from the envelope

of furs in which he had been wrapped by Servadac and the lieutenant,

they found themselves face to face with a shrivelled little man, about

five feet two inches high, with a round bald head, smooth and shiny as

an ostrich’s egg, no beard unless the unshorn growth of a week could

be so described, and a long hooked nose that supported a huge pair of

spectacles such as with many near-sighted people seems to have become

a part of their individuality. His nervous system was remarkably

developed, and his body might not inaptly be compared to one of the

Rhumkorff’s bobbins of which the thread, several hundred yards in

length, is permeated throughout by electric fluid. But whatever he was,

his life, if possible, must be preserved. When he had been partially

divested of his clothing, his heart was found to be still beating,

though very feebly. Asserting that while there was life there was hope,

Ben Zoof recommenced his friction with more vigor than ever.

When the rubbing had been continued without a moment’s intermission for

the best part of half an hour, the astronomer heaved a faint sigh, which

ere long was followed by another and another. He half opened his eyes,

closed them again, then opened them completely, but without exhibiting

any consciousness whatever of his situation. A few words seemed to

escape his lips, but they were quite unintelligible. Presently he raised

his right hand to his forehead as though instinctively feeling for

something that was missing; then, all of a sudden, his features became

contracted, his face flushed with apparent irritation, and he exclaimed

fretfully, “My spectacles!--where are my spectacles?”

In order to facilitate his operations, Ben Zoof had removed the

spectacles in spite of the tenacity with which they seemed to adhere

to the temples of his patient; but he now rapidly brought them back

and readjusted them as best he could to what seemed to be their natural

position on the aquiline nose. The professor heaved a long sigh of

relief, and once more closed his eyes.

Before long the astronomer roused himself a little more, and glanced

inquiringly about him, but soon relapsed into his comatose condition.

When next he opened his eyes, Captain Servadac happened to be bending

down closely over him, examining his features with curious scrutiny.

The old man darted an angry look at him through the spectacles, and said

sharply, “Servadac, five hundred lines to-morrow!”

It was an echo of days of old. The words were few, but they were enough

to recall the identity which Servadac was trying to make out.

“Is it possible?” he exclaimed. “Here is my old tutor, Mr. Rosette, in

very flesh and blood.”

“Can’t say much for the flesh,” muttered Ben Zoof.

The old man had again fallen back into a torpid slumber. Ben Zoof

continued, “His sleep is getting more composed. Let him alone; he will

come round yet. Haven’t I heard of men more dried up than he is, being

brought all the way from Egypt in cases covered with pictures?”

“You idiot!--those were mummies; they had been dead for ages.”

Ben Zoof did not answer a word. He went on preparing a warm bed, into

which he managed to remove his patient, who soon fell into a calm and

natural sleep.

Too impatient to await the awakening of the astronomer and to hear what

representations he had to make, Servadac, the count, and the lieutenant,

constituting themselves what might be designated “the Academy of

Sciences” of the colony, spent the whole of the remainder of the day in

starting and discussing the wildest conjectures about their situation.

The hypothesis, to which they had now accustomed themselves for so

long, that a new asteroid had been formed by a fracture of the earth’s

surface, seemed to fall to the ground when they found that Professor

Palmyrin Rosette had associated the name of Gallia, not with their

present home, but with what he called “my comet”; and that theory being

abandoned, they were driven to make the most improbable speculations to

replace it.

Alluding to Rosette, Servadac took care to inform his companions

that, although the professor was always eccentric, and at times very

irascible, yet he was really exceedingly good-hearted; his bark was

worse than his bite; and if suffered to take their course without

observation, his outbreaks of ill-temper seldom lasted long.

“We will certainly do our best to get on with him,” said the count. “He

is no doubt the author of the papers, and we must hope that he will be

able to give us some valuable information.”

“Beyond a question the documents have originated with him,” assented

the lieutenant. “Gallia was the word written at the top of every one of

them, and Gallia was the first word uttered by him in our hearing.”

The astronomer slept on. Meanwhile, the three together had no

hesitation in examining his papers, and scrutinizing the figures on his

extemporized blackboard. The handwriting corresponded with that of the

papers already received; the blackboard was covered with algebraical

symbols traced in chalk, which they were careful not to obliterate;

and the papers, which consisted for the most part of detached scraps,

presented a perfect wilderness of geometrical figures, conic sections of

every variety being repeated in countless profusion.

Lieutenant Procope pointed out that these curves evidently had reference

to the orbits of comets, which are variously parabolic, hyperbolic, or

elliptic. If either of the first two, the comet, after once appearing

within the range of terrestrial vision, would vanish forever in the

outlying regions of space; if the last, it would be sure, sooner or

later, after some periodic interval, to return.

From the _prima facie_ appearance of his papers, then, it seemed

probable that the astronomer, during his sojourn at Formentera, had been

devoting himself to the study of cometary orbits; and as calculations of

this kind are ordinarily based upon the assumption that the orbit is a

parabola, it was not unlikely that he had been endeavoring to trace the

path of some particular comet.

“I wonder whether these calculations were made before or after the 1st

of January; it makes all the difference,” said Lieutenant Procope.

“We must bide our time and hear,” replied the count.

Servadac paced restlessly up and down. “I would give a month of my

life,” he cried, impetuously, “for every hour that the old fellow goes

sleeping on.”

“You might be making a bad bargain,” said Procope, smiling. “Perhaps

after all the comet has had nothing to do with the convulsion that we

have experienced.”

“Nonsense!” exclaimed the captain; “I know better than that, and so do

you. Is it not as clear as daylight that the earth and this comet have

been in collision, and the result has been that our little world has

been split off and sent flying far into space?”

Count Timascheff and the lieutenant looked at each other in silence. “I

do not deny your theory,” said Procope after a while. “If it be correct,

I suppose we must conclude that the enormous disc we observed on the

night of the catastrophe was the comet itself; and the velocity with

which it was traveling must have been so great that it was hardly

arrested at all by the attraction of the earth.”

“Plausible enough,” answered Count Timascheff; “and it is to this comet

that our scientific friend here has given the name of Gallia.”

It still remained a puzzle to them all why the astronomer should

apparently be interested in the comet so much more than in the new

little world in which their strange lot was cast.

“Can you explain this?” asked the count.

“There is no accounting for the freaks of philosophers, you know,” said

Servadac; “and have I not told you that this philosopher in particular

is one of the most eccentric beings in creation?”

“Besides,” added the lieutenant, “it is exceedingly likely that his

observations had been going on for some considerable period before the

convulsion happened.”

Thus, the general conclusion arrived at by the Gallian Academy of

Science was this: That on the night of the 31st of December, a comet,

crossing the ecliptic, had come into collision with the earth, and that

the violence of the shock had separated a huge fragment from the

globe, which fragment from that date had been traversing the remote

inter-planetary regions. Palmyrin Rosette would doubtless confirm their

solution of the phenomenon.

CHAPTER II. A REVELATION

To the general population of the colony the arrival of the stranger was

a matter of small interest. The Spaniards were naturally too indolent

to be affected in any way by an incident that concerned themselves so

remotely; while the Russians felt themselves simply reliant on their

master, and as long as they were with him were careless as to where or

how they spent their days. Everything went on with them in an accustomed

routine; and they lay down night after night, and awoke to their

avocations morning after morning, just as if nothing extraordinary had

occurred.

All night long Ben Zoof would not leave the professor’s bedside. He had

constituted himself sick nurse, and considered his reputation at stake

if he failed to set his patient on his feet again. He watched every

movement, listened to every breath, and never failed to administer

the strongest cordials upon the slightest pretext. Even in his sleep

Rosette’s irritable nature revealed itself. Ever and again, sometimes

in a tone of uneasiness, and sometimes with the expression of positive

anger, the name of Gallia escaped his lips, as though he were dreaming

that his claim to the discovery of the comet was being contested or

denied; but although his attendant was on the alert to gather all he

could, he was able to catch nothing in the incoherent sentences that

served to throw any real light upon the problem that they were all eager

to solve.

When the sun reappeared on the western horizon the professor was still

sound asleep; and Ben Zoof, who was especially anxious that the repose

which promised to be so beneficial should not be disturbed, felt

considerable annoyance at hearing a loud knocking, evidently of some

blunt heavy instrument against a door that had been placed at the

entrance of the gallery, more for the purpose of retaining internal

warmth than for guarding against intrusion from without.

“Confound it!” said Ben Zoof. “I must put a stop to this;” and he made

his way towards the door.

“Who’s there?” he cried, in no very amiable tone.

“I.” replied the quavering voice.

“Who are you?”

“Isaac Hakkabut. Let me in; do, please, let me in.”

“Oh, it is you, old Ashtaroth, is it? What do you want? Can’t you get

anybody to buy your stuffs?”

“Nobody will pay me a proper price.”

“Well, old Shimei, you won’t find a customer here. You had better be

off.”

“No; but do, please--do, please, let me in,” supplicated the Jew. “I

want to speak to his Excellency, the governor.”

“The governor is in bed, and asleep.”

“I can wait until he awakes.”

“Then wait where you are.”

And with this inhospitable rejoinder the orderly was about to return to

his place at the side of his patient, when Servadac, who had been roused

by the sound of voices, called out, “What’s the matter, Ben Zoof?”

“Oh, nothing, sir; only that hound of a Hakkabut says he wants to speak

to you.”

“Let him in, then.”

Ben Zoof hesitated.

“Let him in, I say,” repeated the captain, peremptorily.

However reluctantly, Ben Zoof obeyed. The door was unfastened, and Isaac

Hakkabut, enveloped in an old overcoat, shuffled into the gallery. In a

few moments Servadac approached, and the Jew began to overwhelm him with

the most obsequious epithets. Without vouchsafing any reply, the captain

beckoned to the old man to follow him, and leading the way to the

central hall, stopped, and turning so as to look him steadily in the

face, said, “Now is your opportunity. Tell me what you want.”

“Oh, my lord, my lord,” whined Isaac, “you must have some news to tell

me.”

“News? What do you mean?”

“From my little tartan yonder, I saw the yawl go out from the rock here

on a journey, and I saw it come back, and it brought a stranger; and I

thought--I thought--I thought--”

“Well, you thought--what did you think?”

“Why, that perhaps the stranger had come from the northern shores of the

Mediterranean, and that I might ask him--”

He paused again, and gave a glance at the captain.

“Ask him what? Speak out, man?”

“Ask him if he brings any tidings of Europe,” Hakkabut blurted out at

last.

Servadac shrugged his shoulders in contempt and turned away. Here was

a man who had been resident three months in Gallia, a living witness

of all the abnormal phenomena that had occurred, and yet refusing to

believe that his hope of making good bargains with European traders was

at an end. Surely nothing, thought the captain, will convince the old

rascal now; and he moved off in disgust. The orderly, however, who

had listened with much amusement, was by no means disinclined for the

conversation to be continued. “Are you satisfied, old Ezekiel?” he

asked.

“Isn’t it so? Am I not right? Didn’t a stranger arrive here last night?”

inquired the Jew.

“Yes, quite true.”

“Where from?”

“From the Balearic Isles.”

“The Balearic Isles?” echoed Isaac.

“Yes.”

“Fine quarters for trade! Hardly twenty leagues from Spain! He must have

brought news from Europe!”

“Well, old Manasseh, what if he has?”

“I should like to see him.”

“Can’t be.”

The Jew sidled close up to Ben Zoof, and laying his hand on his arm,

said in a low and insinuating tone, “I am poor, you know; but I would

give you a few reals if you would let me talk to this stranger.”

But as if he thought he was making too liberal an offer, he added, “Only

it must be at once.”

“He is too tired; he is worn out; he is fast asleep,” answered Ben Zoof.

“But I would pay you to wake him.”

The captain had overheard the tenor of the conversation, and interposed

sternly, “Hakkabut! if you make the least attempt to disturb our

visitor, I shall have you turned outside that door immediately.”

“No offense, my lord, I hope,” stammered out the Jew. “I only meant--”

“Silence!” shouted Servadac. The old man hung his head, abashed.

“I will tell you what,” said Servadac after a brief interval; “I will

give you leave to hear what this stranger has to tell as soon as he is

able to tell us anything; at present we have not heard a word from his

lips.”

The Jew looked perplexed.

“Yes,” said Servadac; “when we hear his story, you shall hear it too.”

“And I hope it will be to your liking, old Ezekiel!” added Ben Zoof in a

voice of irony.

They had none of them long to wait, for within a few minutes Rosette’s

peevish voice was heard calling, “Joseph! Joseph!”

The professor did not open his eyes, and appeared to be slumbering on,

but very shortly afterwards called out again, “Joseph! Confound the

fellow! where is he?” It was evident that he was half dreaming about

a former servant now far away on the ancient globe. “Where’s my

blackboard, Joseph?”

“Quite safe, sir,” answered Ben Zoof, quickly.

Rosette unclosed his eyes and fixed them full upon the orderly’s face.

“Are you Joseph?” he asked.

“At your service, sir,” replied Ben Zoof with imperturbable gravity.

“Then get me my coffee, and be quick about it.”

Ben Zoof left to go into the kitchen, and Servadac approached the

professor in order to assist him in rising to a sitting posture.

“Do you recognize your quondam pupil, professor?” he asked.

“Ah, yes, yes; you are Servadac,” replied Rosette. “It is twelve years

or more since I saw you; I hope you have improved.”

“Quite a reformed character, sir, I assure you,” said Servadac, smiling.

“Well, that’s as it should be; that’s right,” said the astronomer with

fussy importance. “But let me have my coffee,” he added impatiently; “I

cannot collect my thoughts without my coffee.”

Fortunately, Ben Zoof appeared with a great cup, hot and strong. After

draining it with much apparent relish, the professor got out of bed,

walked into the common hall, round which he glanced with a pre-occupied

air, and proceeded to seat himself in an armchair, the most comfortable

which the cabin of the _Dobryna_ had supplied. Then, in a voice full

of satisfaction, and that involuntarily recalled the exclamations of

delight that had wound up the two first of the mysterious documents that

had been received, he burst out, “Well, gentlemen, what do you think of

Gallia?”

There was no time for anyone to make a reply before Isaac Hakkabut had

darted forward.

“By the God--”

“Who is that?” asked the startled professor; and he frowned, and made a

gesture of repugnance.

Regardless of the efforts that were made to silence him, the Jew

continued, “By the God of Abraham, I beseech you, give me some tidings

of Europe!”

“Europe?” shouted the professor, springing from his seat as if he were

electrified; “what does the man want with Europe?”

“I want to get there!” screeched the Jew; and in spite of every exertion

to get him away, he clung most tenaciously to the professor’s chair, and

again and again implored for news of Europe.

Rosette made no immediate reply. After a moment or two’s reflection, he

turned to Servadac and asked him whether it was not the middle of April.

“It is the twentieth,” answered the captain.

“Then to-day,” said the astronomer, speaking with the greatest

deliberation--“to-day we are just three millions of leagues away from

Europe.”

The Jew was utterly crestfallen.

“You seem here,” continued the professor, “to be very ignorant of the

state of things.”

“How far we are ignorant,” rejoined Servadac, “I cannot tell. But I will

tell you all that we do know, and all that we have surmised.” And

as briefly as he could, he related all that had happened since

the memorable night of the thirty-first of December; how they had

experienced the shock; how the _Dobryna_ had made her voyage; how they

had discovered nothing except the fragments of the old continent at

Tunis, Sardinia, Gibraltar, and now at Formentera; how at intervals

the three anonymous documents had been received; and, finally, how

the settlement at Gourbi Island had been abandoned for their present

quarters at Nina’s Hive.

The astronomer had hardly patience to hear him to the end. “And what do

you say is your surmise as to your present position?” he asked.

“Our supposition,” the captain replied, “is this. We imagine that we

are on a considerable fragment of the terrestrial globe that has been

detached by collision with a planet to which you appear to have given

the name of Gallia.”

“Better than that!” cried Rosette, starting to his feet with excitement.

“How? Why? What do you mean?” cried the voices of the listeners.

“You are correct to a certain degree,” continued the professor. “It is

quite true that at 47’ 35.6” after two o’clock on the morning of the

first of January there was a collision; my comet grazed the earth; and

the bits of the earth which you have named were carried clean away.”

They were all fairly bewildered.

“Where, then,” cried Servadac eagerly, “where are we?”

“You are on my comet, on Gallia itself!”

And the professor gazed around him with a perfect air of triumph.

CHAPTER III. THE PROFESSOR’S EXPERIENCES

“Yes, my comet!” repeated the professor, and from time to time he

knitted his brows, and looked around him with a defiant air, as though

he could not get rid of the impression that someone was laying an

unwarranted claim to its proprietorship, or that the individuals before

him were intruders upon his own proper domain.

But for a considerable while, Servadac, the count, and the lieutenant

remained silent and sunk in thought. Here then, at last, was the

unriddling of the enigma they had been so long endeavoring to solve;

both the hypotheses they had formed in succession had now to give way

before the announcement of the real truth. The first supposition, that

the rotatory axis of the earth had been subject to some accidental

modification, and the conjecture that replaced it, namely, that a

certain portion of the terrestrial sphere had been splintered off and

carried into space, had both now to yield to the representation that

the earth had been grazed by an unknown comet, which had caught up some

scattered fragments from its surface, and was bearing them far away into

sidereal regions. Unfolded lay the past and the present before them; but

this only served to awaken a keener interest about the future. Could the

professor throw any light upon that? they longed to inquire, but did not

yet venture to ask him.

Meanwhile Rosette assumed a pompous professional air, and appeared to

be waiting for the entire party to be ceremoniously introduced to him.

Nothing unwilling to humor the vanity of the eccentric little man,

Servadac proceeded to go through the expected formalities.

“Allow me to present to you my excellent friend, the Count Timascheff,”

he said.

“You are very welcome,” said Rosette, bowing to the count with a smile

of condescension.

“Although I am not precisely a voluntary resident on your comet, Mr.

Professor, I beg to acknowledge your courteous reception,” gravely

responded Timascheff.

Servadac could not quite conceal his amusement at the count’s irony, but

continued, “This is Lieutenant Procope, the officer in command of the

_Dobryna_.”

The professor bowed again in frigid dignity.

“His yacht has conveyed us right round Gallia,” added the captain.

“Round Gallia?” eagerly exclaimed the professor.

“Yes, entirely round it,” answered Servadac, and without allowing time

for reply, proceeded, “And this is my orderly, Ben Zoof.”

“Aide-de-camp to his Excellency the Governor of Gallia,” interposed Ben

Zoof himself, anxious to maintain his master’s honor as well as his own.

Rosette scarcely bent his head.

The rest of the population of the Hive were all presented in succession:

the Russian sailors, the Spaniards, young Pablo, and little Nina, on

whom the professor, evidently no lover of children, glared fiercely

through his formidable spectacles. Isaac Hakkabut, after his

introduction, begged to be allowed to ask one question.

“How soon may we hope to get back?” he inquired.

“Get back!” rejoined Rosette, sharply; “who talks of getting back? We

have hardly started yet.”

Seeing that the professor was inclined to get angry, Captain Servadac

adroitly gave a new turn to the conversation by asking him whether

he would gratify them by relating his own recent experiences. The

astronomer seemed pleased with the proposal, and at once commenced a

verbose and somewhat circumlocutory address, of which the following

summary presents the main features.

The French Government, being desirous of verifying the measurement

already made of the arc of the meridian of Paris, appointed a scientific

commission for that purpose. From that commission the name of Palmyrin

Rosette was omitted, apparently for no other reason than his personal

unpopularity. Furious at the slight, the professor resolved to set to

work independently on his own account, and declaring that there were

inaccuracies in the previous geodesic operations, he determined to

re-examine the results of the last triangulation which had united

Formentera to the Spanish coast by a triangle, one of the sides of which

measured over a hundred miles, the very operation which had already been

so successfully accomplished by Arago and Biot.

Accordingly, leaving Paris for the Balearic Isles, he placed his

observatory on the highest point of Formentera, and accompanied as he

was only by his servant, Joseph, led the life of a recluse. He secured

the services of a former assistant, and dispatched him to a high peak on

the coast of Spain, where he had to superintend a reverberator, which,

with the aid of a glass, could be seen from Formentera. A few books and

instruments, and two months’ victuals, was all the baggage he took with

him, except an excellent astronomical telescope, which was, indeed,

almost part and parcel of himself, and with which he assiduously scanned

the heavens, in the sanguine anticipation of making some discovery which

would immortalize his name.

The task he had undertaken demanded the utmost patience. Night after

night, in order to fix the apex of his triangle, he had to linger on the

watch for the assistant’s signal-light, but he did not forget that

his predecessors, Arago and Biot, had had to wait sixty-one days for a

similar purpose. What retarded the work was the dense fog which, it has

been already mentioned, at that time enveloped not only that part of

Europe, but almost the entire world.

Never failing to turn to the best advantage the few intervals when the

mist lifted a little, the astronomer would at the same time cast an

inquiring glance at the firmament, as he was greatly interested in the

revision of the chart of the heavens, in the region contiguous to the

constellation Gemini.

To the naked eye this constellation consists of only six stars, but

through a telescope ten inches in diameter, as many as six thousand

are visible. Rosette, however, did not possess a reflector of this

magnitude, and was obliged to content himself with the good but

comparatively small instrument he had.

On one of these occasions, whilst carefully gauging the recesses of

Gemini, he espied a bright speck which was unregistered in the chart,

and which at first he took for a small star that had escaped being

entered in the catalogue. But the observation of a few separate nights

soon made it manifest that the star was rapidly changing its position

with regard to the adjacent stars, and the astronomer’s heart began to

leap at the thought that the renown of the discovery of a new planet

would be associated with his name.

Redoubling his attention, he soon satisfied himself that what he saw was

not a planet; the rapidity of its displacement rather forced him to

the conjecture that it must be a comet, and this opinion was soon

strengthened by the appearance of a coma, and subsequently confirmed, as

the body approached the sun, by the development of a tail.

A comet! The discovery was fatal to all further progress in the

triangulation. However conscientiously the assistant on the Spanish

coast might look to the kindling of the beacon, Rosette had no glances

to spare for that direction; he had no eyes except for the one object of

his notice, no thoughts apart from that one quarter of the firmament.

A comet! No time must be lost in calculating its elements.

Now, in order to calculate the elements of a comet, it is always deemed

the safest mode of procedure to assume the orbit to be a parabola.

Ordinarily, comets are conspicuous at their perihelia, as being their

shortest distances from the sun, which is the focus of their orbit,

and inasmuch as a parabola is but an ellipse with its axis indefinitely

produced, for some short portion of its pathway the orbit may be

indifferently considered either one or the other; but in this particular

case the professor was right in adopting the supposition of its being

parabolic.

Just as in a circle, it is necessary to know three points to determine

the circumference; so in ascertaining the elements of a comet, three

different positions must be observed before what astronomers call its

“ephemeris” can be established.

But Professor Rosette did not content himself with three positions;

taking advantage of every rift in the fog he made ten, twenty, thirty

observations both in right ascension and in declination, and succeeded

in working out with the most minute accuracy the five elements of the

comet which was evidently advancing with astounding rapidity towards the

earth.

These elements were:

1. The inclination of the plane of the cometary orbit to the plane of

the ecliptic, an angle which is generally considerable, but in this case

the planes were proved to coincide.

2. The position of the ascending node, or the point where the comet

crossed the terrestrial orbit.

These two elements being obtained, the position in space of the comet’s

orbit was determined.

3. The direction of the axis major of the orbit, which was found by

calculating the longitude of the comet’s perihelion.

4. The perihelion distance from the sun, which settled the precise form

of the parabola.

5. The motion of the comet, as being retrograde, or, unlike the planets,

from east to west.

Rosette thus found himself able to calculate the date at which the comet

would reach its perihelion, and, overjoyed at his discovery, without

thinking of calling it Palmyra or Rosette, after his own name, he

resolved that it should be known as Gallia.

His next business was to draw up a formal report. Not only did he at

once recognize that a collision with the earth was possible, but he soon

foresaw that it was inevitable, and that it must happen on the night of

the 31st of December; moreover, as the bodies were moving in opposite

directions, the shock could hardly fail to be violent.

To say that he was elated at the prospect was far below the truth; his

delight amounted almost to delirium. Anyone else would have hurried from

the solitude of Formentera in sheer fright; but, without communicating

a word of his startling discovery, he remained resolutely at his post.

From occasional newspapers which he had received, he had learnt that

fogs, dense as ever, continued to envelop both hemispheres, so that

he was assured that the existence of the comet was utterly unknown

elsewhere; and the ignorance of the world as to the peril that

threatened it averted the panic that would have followed the publication

of the facts, and left the philosopher of Formentera in sole possession

of the great secret. He clung to his post with the greater persistency,

because his calculations had led him to the conclusion that the comet

would strike the earth somewhere to the south of Algeria, and as it had

a solid nucleus, he felt sure that, as he expressed it, the effect would

be “unique,” and he was anxious to be in the vicinity.

The shock came, and with it the results already recorded. Palmyrin

Rosette was suddenly separated from his servant Joseph, and when, after

a long period of unconsciousness, he came to himself, he found that

he was the solitary occupant of the only fragment that survived of the

Balearic Archipelago.

Such was the substance of the narrative which the professor gave

with sundry repetitions and digressions; while he was giving it, he

frequently paused and frowned as if irritated in a way that seemed by

no means justified by the patient and good-humored demeanor of his

audience.

“But now, gentlemen,” added the professor, “I must tell you something

more. Important changes have resulted from the collision; the cardinal

points have been displaced; gravity has been diminished: not that I ever

supposed for a minute, as you did, that I was still upon the earth. No!

the earth, attended by her moon, continued to rotate along her proper

orbit. But we, gentlemen, have nothing to complain of; our destiny might

have been far worse; we might all have been crushed to death, or the

comet might have remained in adhesion to the earth; and in neither of

these cases should we have had the satisfaction of making this marvelous

excursion through untraversed solar regions. No, gentlemen, I repeat it,

we have nothing to regret.”

And as the professor spoke, he seemed to kindle with the emotion of such

supreme contentment that no one had the heart to gainsay his assertion.

Ben Zoof alone ventured an unlucky remark to the effect that if the

comet had happened to strike against Montmartre, instead of a bit of

Africa, it would have met with some resistance.

“Pshaw!” said Rosette, disdainfully. “A mole-hill like Montmartre would

have been ground to powder in a moment.”

“Mole-hill!” exclaimed Ben Zoof, stung to the quick. “I can tell you it

would have caught up your bit of a comet and worn it like a feather in a

cap.”

The professor looked angry, and Servadac having imposed silence upon

his orderly, explained the worthy soldier’s sensitiveness on all that

concerned Montmartre. Always obedient to his master, Ben Zoof held his

tongue; but he felt that he could never forgive the slight that had been

cast upon his beloved home.

It was now all-important to learn whether the astronomer had been able

to continue his observations, and whether he had learned sufficient of

Gallia’s path through space to make him competent to determine, at least

approximately, the period of its revolution round the sun. With as much

tact and caution as he could, Lieutenant Procope endeavored to intimate

the general desire for some information on this point.

“Before the shock, sir,” answered the professor, “I had conclusively

demonstrated the path of the comet; but, in consequence of the

modifications which that shock has entailed upon my comet’s orbit, I

have been compelled entirely to recommence my calculations.”

The lieutenant looked disappointed.

“Although the orbit of the earth was unaltered,” continued the

professor, “the result of the collision was the projection of the comet

into a new orbit altogether.”

“And may I ask,” said Procope, deferentially, “whether you have got the

elements of the fresh orbit?”

“Yes.”

“Then perhaps you know--”

“I know this, sir, that at 47 minutes 35.6 seconds after two o’clock on

the morning of the 1st of January last, Gallia, in passing its ascending

node, came in contact with the earth; that on the 10th of January it

crossed the orbit of Venus; that it reached its perihelion on the 15th;

that it re-crossed the orbit of Venus; that on the 1st of February

it passed its descending node; on the 13th crossed the orbit of Mars;

entered the zone of the telescopic planets on the 10th of March, and,

attracting Nerina, carried it off as a satellite.”

Servadac interposed:

“We are already acquainted with well-nigh all these extraordinary facts;

many of them, moreover, we have learned from documents which we have

picked up, and which, although unsigned, we cannot entertain a doubt

have originated with you.”

Professor Rosette drew himself up proudly and said: “Of course, they

originated with me. I sent them off by hundreds. From whom else could

they come?”

“From no one but yourself, certainly,” rejoined the count, with grave

politeness.

Hitherto the conversation had thrown no light upon the future movements

of Gallia, and Rosette was disposed apparently to evade, or at least to

postpone, the subject. When, therefore, Lieutenant Procope was about to

press his inquiries in a more categorical form, Servadac, thinking

it advisable not prematurely to press the little _savant_ too far,

interrupted him by asking the professor how he accounted for the earth

having suffered so little from such a formidable concussion.

“I account for it in this way,” answered Rosette: “the earth was

traveling at the rate of 28,000 leagues an hour, and Gallia at the rate

of 57,000 leagues an hour, therefore the result was the same as though

a train rushing along at a speed of about 86,000 leagues an hour had

suddenly encountered some obstacle. The nucleus of the comet, being

excessively hard, has done exactly what a ball would do fired with that

velocity close to a pane of glass. It has crossed the earth without

cracking it.”

“It is possible you may be right,” said Servadac, thoughtfully.

“Right! of course I am right!” replied the snappish professor. Soon,

however, recovering his equanimity, he continued: “It is fortunate

that the earth was only touched obliquely; if the comet had impinged

perpendicularly, it must have plowed its way deep below the surface, and

the disasters it might have caused are beyond reckoning. Perhaps,”

he added, with a smile, “even Montmartre might not have survived the

calamity.”

“Sir!” shouted Ben Zoof, quite unable to bear the unprovoked attack.

“Quiet, Ben Zoof!” said Servadac sternly.

Fortunately for the sake of peace, Isaac Hakkabut, who at length was

beginning to realize something of the true condition of things, came

forward at this moment, and in a voice trembling with eagerness,

implored the professor to tell him when they would all be back again

upon the earth.

“Are you in a great hurry?” asked the professor coolly.

The Jew was about to speak again, when Captain Servadac interposed:

“Allow me to say that, in somewhat more scientific terms, I was about to

ask you the same question. Did I not understand you to say that, as the

consequence of the collision, the character of the comet’s orbit has

been changed?”

“You did, sir.”

“Did you imply that the orbit has ceased to be a parabola?”

“Just so.”

“Is it then an hyperbola? and are we to be carried on far and away into

remote distance, and never, never to return?”

“I did not say an hyperbola.”

“And is it not?”

“It is not.”

“Then it must be an ellipse?”

“Yes.”

“And does its plane coincide with the plane of the earth?”

“Yes.”

“Then it must be a periodic comet?”

“It is.”

Servadac involuntarily raised a ringing shout of joy that echoed again

along the gallery.

“Yes,” continued the professor, “Gallia is a periodic comet, and

allowing for the perturbations to which it is liable from the attraction

of Mars and Jupiter and Saturn, it will return to the earth again in two

years precisely.”

“You mean that in two years after the first shock, Gallia will meet the

earth at the same point as they met before?” said Lieutenant Procope.

“I am afraid so,” said Rosette.

“Why afraid?”

“Because we are doing exceedingly well as we are.” The professor stamped

his foot upon the ground, by way of emphasis, and added, “If I had my

will, Gallia should never return to the earth again!”

CHAPTER IV. A REVISED CALENDAR

All previous hypotheses, then, were now forgotten in the presence of the

one great fact that Gallia was a comet and gravitating through remote

solar regions. Captain Servadac became aware that the huge disc that

had been looming through the clouds after the shock was the form of the

retreating earth, to the proximity of which the one high tide they had

experienced was also to be attributed.

As to the fulfillment of the professor’s prediction of an ultimate

return to the terrestrial sphere, that was a point on which it must

be owned that the captain, after the first flush of his excitement was

over, was not without many misgivings.

The next day or two were spent in providing for the accommodation of the

new comer. Fortunately his desires were very moderate; he seemed to live

among the stars, and as long as he was well provided with coffee, he

cared little for luxuries, and paid little or no regard to the ingenuity

with which all the internal arrangements of Nina’s Hive had been

devised. Anxious to show all proper respect to his former tutor,

Servadac proposed to leave the most comfortable apartment of the place

at his disposal; but the professor resolutely declined to occupy it,

saying that what he required was a small chamber, no matter how small,

provided that it was elevated and secluded, which he could use as

an observatory and where he might prosecute his studies without

disturbance. A general search was instituted, and before long they were

lucky enough to find, about a hundred feet above the central grotto, a

small recess or reduct hollowed, as it were, in the mountain side, which

would exactly answer their purpose. It contained room enough for a bed,

a table, an arm-chair, a chest of drawers, and, what was of still more

consequence, for the indispensable telescope. One small stream of

lava, an off-shoot of the great torrent, sufficed to warm the apartment

enough.

In these retired quarters the astronomer took up his abode. It was on

all hands acknowledged to be advisable to let him go on entirely in his

own way. His meals were taken to him at stated intervals; he slept but

little; carried on his calculations by day, his observations by night,

and very rarely made his appearance amongst the rest of the little

community.

The cold now became very intense, the thermometer registering 30 degrees

F. below zero. The mercury, however, never exhibited any of those

fluctuations that are ever and again to be observed in variable

climates, but continued slowly and steadily to fall, and in all

probability would continue to do so until it reached the normal

temperature of the regions of outlying space.

This steady sinking of the mercury was accompanied by a complete

stillness of the atmosphere; the very air seemed to be congealed; no

particle of it stirred; from zenith to horizon there was never a cloud;

neither were there any of the damp mists or dry fogs which so often

extend over the polar regions of the earth; the sky was always clear;

the sun shone by day and the stars by night without causing any

perceptible difference in the temperature.

These peculiar conditions rendered the cold endurable even in the open

air. The cause of so many of the diseases that prove fatal to Arctic

explorers resides in the cutting winds, unwholesome fogs, or terrible

snow drifts, which, by drying up, relaxing, or otherwise affecting the

lungs, make them incapable of fulfilling their proper functions. But

during periods of calm weather, when the air has been absolutely still,

many polar navigators, well-clothed and properly fed, have been known

to withstand a temperature when the thermometer has fallen to 60 degrees

below zero. It was the experience of Parry upon Melville Island, of

Kane beyond latitude 81 degrees north, and of Hall and the crew of the

_Polaris_, that, however intense the cold, in the absence of the wind

they could always brave its rigor.

Notwithstanding, then, the extreme lowness of the temperature, the

little population found that they were able to move about in the open

air with perfect immunity. The governor general made it his special care

to see that his people were all well fed and warmly clad. Food was

both wholesome and abundant, and besides the furs brought from the

_Dobryna’s_ stores, fresh skins could very easily be procured and

made up into wearing apparel. A daily course of out-door exercise was

enforced upon everyone; not even Pablo and Nina were exempted from the

general rule; the two children, muffled up in furs, looking like little

Esquimeaux, skated along together, Pablo ever at his companion’s

side, ready to give her a helping hand whenever she was weary with her

exertions.

After his interview with the newly arrived astronomer, Isaac Hakkabut

slunk back again to his tartan. A change had come over his ideas; he

could no longer resist the conviction that he was indeed millions and

millions of miles away from the earth, where he had carried on so varied

and remunerative a traffic. It might be imagined that this realization

of his true position would have led him to a better mind, and that,

in some degree at least, he would have been induced to regard the few

fellow-creatures with whom his lot had been so strangely cast, otherwise

than as mere instruments to be turned to his own personal and pecuniary

advantage; but no--the desire of gain was too thoroughly ingrained into

his hard nature ever to be eradicated, and secure in his knowledge that

he was under the protection of a French officer, who, except under the

most urgent necessity, would not permit him to be molested in retaining

his property, he determined to wait for some emergency to arise which

should enable him to use his present situation for his own profit.

On the one hand, the Jew took it into account that although the chances

of returning to the earth might be remote, yet from what he had heard

from the professor he could not believe that they were improbable; on

the other, he knew that a considerable sum of money, in English and

Russian coinage, was in the possession of various members of the little

colony, and this, although valueless now, would be worth as much as ever

if the proper condition of things should be restored; accordingly, he

set his heart on getting all the monetary wealth of Gallia into his

possession, and to do this he must sell his goods. But he would not

sell them yet; there might come a time when for many articles the supply

would not be equal to the demand; that would be the time for him;

by waiting he reckoned he should be able to transact some lucrative

business.

Such in his solitude were old Isaac’s cogitations, whilst the universal

population of Nina’s Hive were congratulating themselves upon being rid

of his odious presence.

As already stated in the message brought by the carrier pigeon, the

distance traveled by Gallia in April was 39,000,000 leagues, and at the

end of the month she was 110,000,000 leagues from the sun. A diagram

representing the elliptical orbit of the planet, accompanied by

an ephemeris made out in minute detail, had been drawn out by the

professor. The curve was divided into twenty-four sections of unequal

length, representing respectively the distance described in the

twenty-four months of the Gallian year, the twelve former divisions,

according to Kepler’s law, gradually diminishing in length as they

approached the point denoting the aphelion and increasing as they neared

the perihelion.

It was on the 12th of May that Rosette exhibited this result of his

labors to Servadac, the count, and the lieutenant, who visited his

apartment and naturally examined the drawing with the keenest interest.

Gallia’s path, extending beyond the orbit of Jupiter, lay clearly

defined before their eyes, the progress along the orbit and the solar

distances being inserted for each month separately. Nothing could look

plainer, and if the professor’s calculations were correct (a point upon

which they dared not, if they would, express the semblance of a doubt),

Gallia would accomplish her revolution in precisely two years, and would

meet the earth, which would in the same period of time have completed

two annual revolutions, in the very same spot as before. What would be

the consequences of a second collision they scarcely ventured to think.

Without lifting his eye from the diagram, which he was still carefully

scrutinizing, Servadac said, “I see that during the month of May, Gallia

will only travel 30,400,000 leagues, and that this will leave her about

140,000,000 leagues distant from the sun.”

“Just so,” replied the professor.

“Then we have already passed the zone of the telescopic planets, have we

not?” asked the count.

“Can you not use your eyes?” said the professor, testily. “If you will

look you will see the zone marked clearly enough upon the map.”

Without noticing the interruption, Servadac continued his own remarks,

“The comet then, I see, is to reach its aphelion on the 15th of January,

exactly a twelvemonth after passing its perihelion.”

“A twelvemonth! Not a Gallian twelvemonth?” exclaimed Rosette.

Servadac looked bewildered. Lieutenant Procope could not suppress a

smile.

“What are you laughing at?” demanded the professor, turning round upon

him angrily.

“Nothing, sir; only it amuses me to see how you want to revise the

terrestrial calendar.”

“I want to be logical, that’s all.”

“By all manner of means, my dear professor, let us be logical.”

“Well, then, listen to me,” resumed the professor, stiffly. “I presume

you are taking it for granted that the Gallian year--by which I mean

the time in which Gallia makes one revolution round the sun--is equal in

length to two terrestrial years.”

They signified their assent.

“And that year, like every other year, ought to be divided into twelve

months.”

“Yes, certainly, if you wish it,” said the captain, acquiescing.

“If I wish it!” exclaimed Rosette. “Nothing of the sort! Of course a

year must have twelve months!”

“Of course,” said the captain.

“And how many days will make a month?” asked the professor.

“I suppose sixty or sixty-two, as the case may be. The days now are only

half as long as they used to be,” answered the captain.

“Servadac, don’t be thoughtless!” cried Rosette, with all the petulant

impatience of the old pedagogue. “If the days are only half as long

as they were, sixty of them cannot make up a twelfth part of Gallia’s

year--cannot be a month.”

“I suppose not,” replied the confused captain.

“Do you not see, then,” continued the astronomer, “that if a Gallian

month is twice as long as a terrestrial month, and a Gallian day is only

half as long as a terrestrial day, there must be a hundred and twenty

days in every month?”

“No doubt you are right, professor,” said Count Timascheff; “but do you

not think that the use of a new calendar such as this would practically

be very troublesome?”

“Not at all! not at all! I do not intend to use any other,” was the

professor’s bluff reply.

After pondering for a few moments, the captain spoke again. “According,

then, to this new calendar, it isn’t the middle of May at all; it must

now be some time in March.”

“Yes,” said the professor, “to-day is the 26th of March. It is the

266th day of the Gallian year. It corresponds with the 133d day of the

terrestrial year. You are quite correct, it is the 26th of March.”

“Strange!” muttered Servadac.

“And a month, a terrestrial month, thirty old days, sixty new days

hence, it will be the 86th of March.”

“Ha, ha!” roared the captain; “this is logic with a vengeance!”

The old professor had an undefined consciousness that his former pupil

was laughing at him; and as it was growing late, he made an excuse

that he had no more leisure. The visitors accordingly quitted the

observatory.

It must be owned that the revised calendar was left to the professor’s

sole use, and the colony was fairly puzzled whenever he referred to such

unheard-of dates as the 47th of April or the 118th of May.

According to the old calendar, June had now arrived; [illustration

omitted] [page intentionally blank] and by the professor’s tables Gallia

during the month would have advanced 27,500,000 leagues farther along

its orbit, and would have attained a distance of 155,000,000 leagues

from the sun. The thermometer continued to fall; the atmosphere remained

clear as heretofore. The population performed their daily avocations

with systematic routine; and almost the only thing that broke the

monotony of existence was an occasional visit from the blustering,

nervous, little professor, when some sudden fancy induced him to throw

aside his astronomical studies for a time, and pay a visit to the common

hall. His arrival there was generally hailed as the precursor of a

little season of excitement. Somehow or other the conversation would

eventually work its way round to the topic of a future collision between

the comet and the earth; and in the same degree as this was a matter

of sanguine anticipation to Captain Servadac and his friends, it was a

matter of aversion to the astronomical enthusiast, who had no desire to

quit his present quarters in a sphere which, being of his own discovery,

he could hardly have cared for more if it had been of his own creation.

The interview would often terminate in a scene of considerable

animation.

On the 27th of June (old calendar) the professor burst like a

cannon-ball into the central hall, where they were all assembled, and

without a word of salutation or of preface, accosted the lieutenant in

the way in which in earlier days he had been accustomed to speak to an

idle school-boy, “Now, lieutenant! no evasions! no shufflings! Tell me,

have you or have you not circumnavigated Gallia?”

The lieutenant drew himself up stiffly. “Evasions! shufflings! I am not

accustomed, sir--” he began in a tone evidencing no little resentment;

but catching a hint from the count he subdued his voice, and simply

said, “We have.”

“And may I ask,” continued the professor, quite unaware of his previous

discourtesy, “whether, when you made your voyage, you took any account

of distances?”

“As approximately as I could,” replied the lieutenant; “I did what I

could by log and compass. I was unable to take the altitude of sun or

star.”

“At what result did you arrive? What is the measurement of our equator?”

“I estimate the total circumference of the equator to be about 1,400

miles.”

“Ah!” said the professor, more than half speaking to himself, “a

circumference of 1,400 miles would give a diameter of about 450 miles.

That would be approximately about one-sixteenth of the diameter of the

earth.”

Raising his voice, he continued, “Gentlemen, in order to complete my

account of my comet Gallia, I require to know its area, its mass, its

volume, its density, its specific gravity.”

“Since we know the diameter,” remarked the lieutenant, “there can be no

difficulty in finding its surface and its volume.”

“And did I say there was any difficulty?” asked the professor, fiercely.

“I have been able to reckon that ever since I was born.”

“Cock-a-doodle-doo!” cried Ben Zoof, delighted at any opportunity of

paying off his old grudge.

The professor looked at him, but did not vouchsafe a word. Addressing

the captain, he said, “Now, Servadac, take your paper and a pen, and

find me the surface of Gallia.”

With more submission than when he was a school-boy, the captain sat down

and endeavored to recall the proper formula.

“The surface of a sphere? Multiply circumference by diameter.”

“Right!” cried Rosette; “but it ought to be done by this time.”

“Circumference, 1,400; diameter, 450; area of surface, 630,000,” read

the captain.

“True,” replied Rosette, “630,000 square miles; just 292 times less than

that of the earth.”

“Pretty little comet! nice little comet!” muttered Ben Zoof.

The astronomer bit his lip, snorted, and cast at him a withering look,

but did not take any further notice.

“Now, Captain Servadac,” said the professor, “take your pen again, and

find me the volume of Gallia.”

The captain hesitated.

“Quick, quick!” cried the professor, impatiently; “surely you have not

forgotten how to find the volume of a sphere!”

“A moment’s breathing time, please.”

“Breathing time, indeed! A mathematician should not want breathing

time! Come, multiply the surface by the third of the radius. Don’t you

recollect?”

Captain Servadac applied himself to his task while the by-standers

waited, with some difficulty suppressing their inclination to laugh.

There was a short silence, at the end of which Servadac announced that

the volume of the comet was 47,880,000 cubic miles.

“Just about 5,000 times less than the earth,” observed the lieutenant.

“Nice little comet! pretty little comet!” said Ben Zoof.

The professor scowled at him, and was manifestly annoyed at having the

insignificant dimensions of his comet pointed out in so disparaging

a manner. Lieutenant Procope further remarked that from the earth

he supposed it to be about as conspicuous as a star of the seventh

magnitude, and would require a good telescope to see it.

“Ha, ha!” laughed the orderly, aloud; “charming little comet! so pretty;

and so modest!”

“You rascal!” roared the professor, and clenched his hand in passion, as

if about to strike him. Ben Zoof laughed the more, and was on the point

of repeating his satirical comments, when a stern order from the captain

made him hold his tongue. The truth was that the professor was just as

sensitive about his comet as the orderly was about Montmartre, and if

the contention between the two had been allowed to go on unchecked, it

is impossible to say what serious quarrel might not have arisen.

When Professor Rosette’s equanimity had been restored, he said, “Thus,

then, gentlemen, the diameter, the surface, the volume of my comet are

settled; but there is more to be done. I shall not be satisfied until,

by actual measurement, I have determined its mass, its density, and the

force of gravity at its surface.”

“A laborious problem,” remarked Count Timascheff.

“Laborious or not, it has to be accomplished. I am resolved to find out

what my comet weighs.”

“Would it not be of some assistance, if we knew of what substance it is

composed?” asked the lieutenant.

“That is of no moment at all,” replied the professor; “the problem is

independent of it.”

“Then we await your orders,” was the captain’s reply.

“You must understand, however,” said Rosette, “that there are various

preliminary calculations to be made; you will have to wait till they are

finished.”

“As long as you please,” said the count.

“No hurry at all,” observed the captain, who was not in the least

impatient to continue his mathematical exercises.

“Then, gentlemen,” said the astronomer, “with your leave we will for

this purpose make an appointment a few weeks hence. What do you say to

the 62d of April?”

Without noticing the general smile which the novel date provoked, the

astronomer left the hall, and retired to his observatory.

CHAPTER V. WANTED: A STEELYARD

Under the still diminishing influence of the sun’s attraction, but

without let or hindrance, Gallia continued its interplanetary course,

accompanied by Nerina, its captured satellite, which performed its

fortnightly revolutions with unvarying regularity.

Meanwhile, the question beyond all others important was ever recurring

to the minds of Servadac and his two companions: were the astronomer’s

calculations correct, and was there a sound foundation for his

prediction that the comet would again touch the earth? But whatever

might be their doubts or anxieties, they were fain to keep all their

misgivings to themselves; the professor was of a temper far too

cross-grained for them to venture to ask him to revise or re-examine the

results of his observations.

The rest of the community by no means shared in their uneasiness.

Negrete and his fellow-countrymen yielded to their destiny with

philosophical indifference. Happier and better provided for than they

had ever been in their lives, it did not give them a passing thought,

far less cause any serious concern, whether they were still circling

round the sun, or whether they were being carried right away within the

limits of another system. Utterly careless of the future, the majos,

light-hearted as ever, carolled out their favorite songs, just as if

they had never quitted the shores of their native land.

Happiest of all were Pablo and Nina. Racing through the galleries of the

Hive, clambering over the rocks upon the shore, one day skating far

away across the frozen ocean, the next fishing in the lake that was kept

liquid by the heat of the lava-torrent, the two children led a life of

perpetual enjoyment. Nor was their recreation allowed to interfere with

their studies. Captain Servadac, who in common with the count really

liked them both, conceived that the responsibilities of a parent in

some degree had devolved upon him, and took great care in superintending

their daily lessons, which he succeeded in making hardly less pleasant

than their sports.

Indulged and loved by all, it was little wonder that young Pablo had no

longing for the scorching plains of Andalusia, or that little Nina

had lost all wish to return with her pet goat to the barren rocks of

Sardinia. They had now a home in which they had nothing to desire.

“Have you no father nor mother?” asked Pablo, one day.

“No,” she answered.

“No more have I,” said the boy, “I used to run along by the side of the

diligences when I was in Spain.”

“I used to look after goats at Madalena,” said Nina; “but it is much

nicer here--I am so happy here. I have you for a brother, and everybody

is so kind. I am afraid they will spoil us, Pablo,” she added, smiling.

“Oh, no, Nina; you are too good to be spoiled, and when I am with you,

you make me good too,” said Pablo, gravely.

July had now arrived. During the month Gallia’s advance along its orbit

would be reduced to 22,000,000 leagues, the distance from the sun at the

end being 172,000,000 leagues, about four and a half times as great as

the average distance of the earth from the sun. It was traveling now

at about the same speed as the earth, which traverses the ecliptic at a

rate of 21,000,000 leagues a month, or 28,800 leagues an hour.

In due time the 62d April, according to the revised Gallian calendar,

dawned; and in punctual fulfillment of the professor’s appointment, a

note was delivered to Servadac to say that he was ready, and hoped that

day to commence operations for calculating the mass and density of his

comet, as well as the force of gravity at its surface.

A point of far greater interest to Captain Servadac and his friends

would have been to ascertain the nature of the substance of which the

comet was composed, but they felt pledged to render the professor

any aid they could in the researches upon which he had set his heart.

Without delay, therefore, they assembled in the central hall, where they

were soon joined by Rosette, who seemed to be in fairly good temper.

“Gentlemen,” he began, “I propose to-day to endeavor to complete our

observations of the elements of my comet. Three matters of investigation

are before us. First, the measure of gravity at its surface; this

attractive force we know, by the increase of our own muscular force,

must of course be considerably less than that at the surface of the

earth. Secondly, its mass, that is, the quality of its matter. And

thirdly, its density or quantity of matter in a unit of its volume. We

will proceed, gentlemen, if you please, to weigh Gallia.”

Ben Zoof, who had just entered the hall, caught the professor’s last

sentence, and without saying a word, went out again and was absent for

some minutes. When he returned, he said, “If you want to weigh this

comet of yours, I suppose you want a pair of scales; but I have been

to look, and I cannot find a pair anywhere. And what’s more,” he added

mischievously, “you won’t get them anywhere.”

A frown came over the professor’s countenance. Servadac saw it, and gave

his orderly a sign that he should desist entirely from his bantering.

“I require, gentlemen,” resumed Rosette, “first of all to know by how

much the weight of a kilogramme here differs from its weight upon the

earth; the attraction, as we have said, being less, the weight will

proportionately be less also.”

“Then an ordinary pair of scales, being under the influence of

attraction, I suppose, would not answer your purpose,” submitted the

lieutenant.

“And the very kilogramme weight you used would have become lighter,” put

in the count, deferentially.

“Pray, gentlemen, do not interrupt me,” said the professor,

authoritatively, as if _ex cathedra_. “I need no instruction on these

points.”

Procope and Timascheff demurely bowed their heads.

The professor resumed. “Upon a steelyard, or spring-balance, dependent

upon mere tension or flexibility, the attraction will have no influence.

If I suspend a weight equivalent to the weight of a kilogramme, the

index will register the proper weight on the surface of Gallia. Thus

I shall arrive at the difference I want: the difference between the

earth’s attraction and the comet’s. Will you, therefore, have

the goodness to provide me at once with a steelyard and a tested

kilogramme?”

The audience looked at one another, and then at Ben Zoof, who was

thoroughly acquainted with all their resources. “We have neither one nor

the other,” said the orderly.

The professor stamped with vexation.

“I believe old Hakkabut has a steelyard on board his tartan,” said Ben

Zoof, presently.

“Then why didn’t you say so before, you idiot?” roared the excitable

little man.

Anxious to pacify him, Servadac assured him that every exertion should

be made to procure the instrument, and directed Ben Zoof to go to the

Jew and borrow it.

“No, stop a moment,” he said, as Ben Zoof was moving away on his,

errand; “perhaps I had better go with you myself; the old Jew may make a

difficulty about lending us any of his property.”

“Why should we not all go?” asked the count; “we should see what kind of

a life the misanthrope leads on board the _Hansa_.”

The proposal met with general approbation. Before they started,

Professor Rosette requested that one of the men might be ordered to cut

him a cubic decimeter out of the solid substance of Gallia. “My engineer

is the man for that,” said the count; “he will do it well for you if you

will give him the precise measurement.”

“What! you don’t mean,” exclaimed the professor, again going off into a

passion, “that you haven’t a proper measure of length?”

Ben Zoof was sent off to ransack the stores for the article in question,

but no measure was forthcoming. “Most likely we shall find one on the

tartan,” said the orderly.

“Then let us lose no time in trying,” answered the professor, as he

hustled with hasty strides into the gallery.

The rest of the party followed, and were soon in the open air upon the

rocks that overhung the shore. They descended to the level of the frozen

water and made their way towards the little creek where the _Dobryna_

and the _Hansa_ lay firmly imprisoned in their icy bonds.

The temperature was low beyond previous experience; but well muffled up

in fur, they all endured it without much actual suffering. Their breath

issued in vapor, which was at once congealed into little crystals upon

their whiskers, beards, eyebrows, and eyelashes, until their faces,

covered with countless snow-white prickles, were truly ludicrous. The

little professor, most comical of all, resembled nothing so much as the

cub of an Arctic bear.

It was eight o’clock in the morning. The sun was rapidly approaching the

zenith; but its disc, from the extreme remoteness, was proportionately

dwarfed; its beams being all but destitute of their proper warmth and

radiance. The volcano to its very summit and the surrounding rocks were

still covered with the unsullied mantle of snow that had fallen while

the atmosphere was still to some extent charged with vapor; but on the

north side the snow had given place to the cascade of fiery lava, which,

making its way down the sloping rocks as far as the vaulted opening of

the central cavern, fell thence perpendicularly into the sea. Above

the cavern, 130 feet up the mountain, was a dark hole, above which

the stream of lava made a bifurcation in its course. From this hole

projected the case of an astronomer’s telescope; it was the opening of

Palmyrin Rosette’s observatory.

Sea and land seemed blended into one dreary whiteness, to which the pale

blue sky offered scarcely any contrast. The shore was indented with the

marks of many footsteps left by the colonists either on their way to

collect ice for drinking purposes, or as the result of their skating

expeditions; the edges of the skates had cut out a labyrinth of curves

complicated as the figures traced by aquatic insects upon the surface of

a pool.

Across the quarter of a mile of level ground that lay between the

mountain and the creek, a series of footprints, frozen hard into the

snow, marked the course taken by Isaac Hakkabut on his last return from

Nina’s Hive.

On approaching the creek, Lieutenant Procope drew his companions’

attention to the elevation of the _Dobryna’s_ and _Hansa’s_ waterline,

both vessels being now some fifteen feet above the level of the sea.

“What a strange phenomenon!” exclaimed the captain.

“It makes me very uneasy,” rejoined the lieutenant; “in shallow places

like this, as the crust of ice thickens, it forces everything upwards

with irresistible force.”

“But surely this process of congelation must have a limit!” said the

count.

“But who can say what that limit will be? Remember that we have not yet

reached our maximum of cold,” replied Procope.

“Indeed, I hope not!” exclaimed the professor; “where would be the use

of our traveling 200,000,000 leagues from the sun, if we are only to

experience the same temperature as we should find at the poles of the

earth?”

“Fortunately for us, however, professor,” said the lieutenant, with a

smile, “the temperature of the remotest space never descends beyond 70

degrees below zero.”

“And as long as there is no wind,” added Servadac, “we may pass

comfortably through the winter, without a single attack of catarrh.”

Lieutenant Procope proceeded to impart to the count his anxiety

about the situation of his yacht. He pointed out that by the constant

superposition of new deposits of ice, the vessel would be elevated to

a great height, and consequently in the event of a thaw, it must

be exposed to a calamity similar to those which in polar seas cause

destruction to so many whalers.

There was no time now for concerting measures offhand to prevent the

disaster, for the other members of the party had already reached the

spot where the _Hansa_ lay bound in her icy trammels. A flight of steps,

recently hewn by Hakkabut himself, gave access for the present to the

gangway, but it was evident that some different contrivance would

have to be resorted to when the tartan should be elevated perhaps to a

hundred feet.

A thin curl of blue smoke issued from the copper funnel that projected

above the mass of snow which had accumulated upon the deck of the

_Hansa_. The owner was sparing of his fuel, and it was only the

non-conducting layer of ice enveloping the tartan that rendered the

internal temperature endurable.

“Hi! old Nebuchadnezzar, where are you?” shouted Ben Zoof, at the full

strength of his lungs.

At the sound of his voice, the cabin door opened, and the Jew’s head and

shoulders protruded onto the deck.

CHAPTER VI. MONEY AT A PREMIUM

“Who’s there? I have nothing here for anyone. Go away!” Such was the

inhospitable greeting with which Isaac Hakkabut received his visitors.

“Hakkabut! do you take us for thieves?” asked Servadac, in tones of

stern displeasure.

“Oh, your Excellency, my lord, I did not know that it was you,” whined

the Jew, but without emerging any farther from his cabin.

“Now, old Hakkabut, come out of your shell! Come and show the governor

proper respect, when he gives you the honor of his company,” cried Ben

Zoof, who by this time had clambered onto the deck.

After considerable hesitation, but still keeping his hold upon the

cabin-door, the Jew made up his mind to step outside. “What do you

want?” he inquired, timorously.

“I want a word with you,” said Servadac, “but I do not want to stand

talking out here in the cold.”

Followed by the rest of the party, he proceeded to mount the steps. The

Jew trembled from head to foot. “But I cannot let you into my cabin. I

am a poor man; I have nothing to give you,” he moaned piteously.

“Here he is!” laughed Ben Zoof, contemptuously; “he is beginning his

chapter of lamentations over again. But standing out here will never do.

Out of the way, old Hakkabut, I say! out of the way!” and, without more

ado, he thrust the astonished Jew on one side and opened the door of the

cabin.

Servadac, however, declined to enter until he had taken the pains to

explain to the owner of the tartan that he had no intention of laying

violent hands upon his property, and that if the time should ever come

that his cargo was in requisition for the common use, he should receive

a proper price for his goods, the same as he would in Europe.

“Europe, indeed!” muttered the Jew maliciously between his teeth.

“European prices will not do for me. I must have Gallian prices--and of

my own fixing, too!”

So large a portion of the vessel had been appropriated to the cargo that

the space reserved for the cabin was of most meager dimensions. In one

corner of the compartment stood a small iron stove, in which smoldered a

bare handful of coals; in another was a trestle-board which served as a

bed; two or three stools and a rickety deal table, together with a few

cooking utensils, completed a stock of furniture which was worthy of its

proprietor.

On entering the cabin, Ben Zoof’s first proceeding was to throw on the

fire a liberal supply of coals, utterly regardless of the groans of poor

Isaac, who would almost as soon have parted with his own bones as submit

to such reckless expenditure of his fuel. The perishing temperature

of the cabin, however, was sufficient justification for the orderly’s

conduct, and by a little skillful manipulation he soon succeeded in

getting up a tolerable fire.

The visitors having taken what seats they could, Hakkabut closed the

door, and, like a prisoner awaiting his sentence, stood with folded

hands, expecting the captain to speak.

“Listen,” said Servadac; “we have come to ask a favor.”

Imagining that at least half his property was to be confiscated, the

Jew began to break out into his usual formula about being a poor man and

having nothing to spare; but Servadac, without heeding his complainings,

went on: “We are not going to ruin you, you know.”

Hakkabut looked keenly into the captain’s face.

“We have only come to know whether you can lend us a steelyard.”

So far from showing any symptom of relief, the old miser exclaimed,

with a stare of astonishment, as if he had been asked for some thousand

francs: “A steelyard?”

“Yes!” echoed the professor, impatiently; “a steelyard.”

“Have you not one?” asked Servadac.

“To be sure he has!” said Ben Zoof.

Old Isaac stammered and stuttered, but at last confessed that perhaps

there might be one amongst the stores.

“Then, surely, you will not object to lend it to us?” said the captain.

“Only for one day,” added the professor.

The Jew stammered again, and began to object. “It is a very delicate

instrument, your Excellency. The cold, you know, the cold may do injury

to the spring; and perhaps you are going to use it to weigh something

very heavy.”

“Why, old Ephraim, do you suppose we are going to weigh a mountain with

it?” said Ben Zoof.