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; 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!”