"Yes, Doctor; everything is neat and tidy."
"Well, after dinner, we shall be round to inspect your arrangements for our comfort."
Dinner passed over in comparative silence.
Each one of the diners now fully realised the solemnity of his position, and none seemed to have any desire to make their thoughts known to their companions.
As soon as the meal was over, the ceremony of christening the carriage was performed by Sandy cracking a bottle of wine against the side, and as the ruddy liquid streamed to the ground, the Doctor pronounced the few words that gave to the machine its name of Sirius.
"Now, my friends, the all-eventful moment has come," he continued, leading the way to a rope-ladder which was hanging down the dark side of the Sirius, from the doorway high overhead. "Let us bid adieu to the Earth that bore and fostered us; it may be that our feet touch its surface for the last time."
The night was gloriously fine; not a cloud to hide the spangled sky. Sandy and his dog were already inside the Sirius; and the light-hearted Scot could be heard singing snatches of North-country ballads as he hurried to and fro. Sandy was, evidently, little troubled at the thoughts of Earth. This confidence was inspired by the calm courage of his master.
Graham mounted next, and was soon busy with the machinery, oiling and wiping with greatest care the shining rods and wheels and cranks, which he loved almost as deeply as a father loves his children.
John Temple then ascended, a little paler perhaps than usual, but calm and self-possessed as was his wont.
Doctor Hermann, after carefully walking round the huge machine to see that all was clear, gave one last look towards the old house, and then to the hills he knew and loved so well, before mounting the swaying ladder, which was pulled up after him by Sandy.