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As soon as we were quite ready, M. Fridriksson advanced, and by way of farewell, called after me in the words of Virgil—words which appeared to have been made for us, travelers starting for an uncertain destination: "Et quacunque viam dederit fortuna sequamur." ("And whichsoever way thou goest, may fortune follow!")
Above were miles upon miles of the earth's crust. As I thought of it, I could fancy the whole weight resting on my shoulders. I was crushed, annihilated! and exhausted myself in vain attempts to turn in my granite bed.
My situation, after all sophistry and reflection, had finally to be summed up in three awful words— Lost! Lost!! LOST!!! Lost at a depth which, to my finite understanding, appeared to be immeasurable.
wild and plaintive cry escaped my lips. On earth during the most profound and comparatively complete darkness, light never allows a complete destruction and extinction of its power. Light is so diffuse, so subtle, that it permeates everywhere, and whatever little may remain, the retina of the eye will succeed in finding it. In this place nothing—the absolute obscurity made me blind in every sense.
Among them I recognized our old and faithful stream, the Hansbach, which, lost in that wild basin, seemed as if it had been flowing since the creation of the world. "We shall miss our excellent friend," I remarked, with a deep sigh. "Bah!" said my uncle testily, "what matters it? That or another, it is all the same." I thought the remark ungrateful, and felt almost inclined to say so; but I forbore.
"Science, great, mighty and in the end unerring," replied my uncle dogmatically, "science has fallen into many errors—errors which have been fortunate and useful rather than otherwise, for they have been the steppingstones to truth."
"Have you any idea of the depth we have reached?" "We are now," continued the Professor, "exactly thirty-five leagues—above a hundred miles—down into the interior of the earth."
It was useless attempting to conceal from ourselves the fatal truth. There could be no doubt about it, unwelcome as was the fact, that during the tempest, there had been a sudden slant of wind, of which we had been unable to take any account, and thus the raft had carried us back to the shores we had left, apparently forever, so many days before!
I know that science should be careful in relation to all discoveries of this nature.
The next day, which was the twenty-seventh of August, was a date celebrated in our wondrous subterranean journey. I never think of it even now, but I shudder with horror. My heart beats wildly at the very memory of that awful day. From this time forward, our reason, our judgment, our human ingenuity, have nothing to do with the course of events.
As to the terrific roar of the explosion, I do not think I heard it. But the form of the rocks completely changed in my eyes—they seemed to be drawn aside like a curtain. I saw a fathomless, a bottomless abyss, which yawned beneath the turgid waves. The sea, which seemed suddenly to have gone mad, then became one great mountainous mass, upon the top of which the raft rose perpendicularly. We were all thrown down. In less than a second the light gave place to the most profound obscurity. Then I felt all solid support give way not to my feet, but to the raft itself.
Despite the awful darkness, despite the noise, the surprise, the emotion, I thoroughly understood what had happened. Beyond the rock which had been blown up, there existed a mighty abyss. The explosion had caused a kind of earthquake in this soil, broken by fissures and rents. The gulf, thus suddenly thrown open, was about to swallow the inland seal which, transformed into a mighty torrent, was dragging us with it.
At this moment, the light of the lantern slowly fell, and at last went out! The wick had wholly burnt to an end. The obscurity became absolute. It was no longer possible to see through the impenetrable darkness! There was one torch left, but it was impossible to keep it alight. Then, like a child, I shut my eyes, that I might not see the darkness.
I looked with glaring eyes. One glance told me that it was something monstrous. But what? It was the great "shark-crocodile" of the early writers on geology. About the size of an ordinary whale, with hideous jaws and two gigantic eyes, it advanced. Its eyes fixed on me with terrible sternness. Some indefinite warning told me that it had marked me for its own.
"While there is life there is hope. I beg to assert, Henry, that as long as a man's heart beats, as long as a man's flesh quivers, I do not allow that a being gifted with thought and will can allow himself to despair."
I had begun to feel as if there had been one gleam of hope. Now all thought of the future vanished! We had consumed our last ounce of food, and it was five o'clock in the morning!
Man's constitution is so peculiar that his health is purely a negative matter. No sooner is the rage of hunger appeased than it becomes difficult to comprehend the meaning of starvation. It is only when you suffer that you really understand.
As to anyone who has not endured privation having any notion of the matte...
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"My nephew, I tell you that you are utterly mistaken," he continued. "Do you not, can you not, recognize all the well-known symtons—" "Of an earthquake? By no means. I am expecting something far more important." "My brain is strained beyond endurance—what, what do you mean?" I cried. "An eruption, Harry." "An eruption," I gasped. "We are, then, in the volcanic shaft of a crater in full action and vigor." "I have every reason to think so," said the Professor in a smiling tone, "and I beg to tell you that it is the most fortunate thing that could happen
"it is the only chance which remains to us of ever escaping from the interior of the earth to the light of day."
We came out of the crater half naked, and the radiant star from which we had asked nothing for two months, was good enough to be prodigal to us of light and warmth—a light and warmth we could easily have dispensed with.
On the 9th of October, in the evening, we reached Hamburg. What was the astonishment of Martha, what the joy of Gretchen! I will not attempt to define it. "Now then, Harry, that you really are a hero," she said, "there is no reason why you should ever leave me again." I looked at her. She was weeping tears of joy.
