The “Rolla” was then at nine thousand feet; we had lost the wind on our way up, and below, in the west, the storm was rapidly gaining on us.
We had still four sacks of sand ballast of the nine we had taken up with us. Every knot that held them to the basket was carefully examined; a precaution of vital importance, as we would soon be above the clouds again, if any of them escaped us in the varied incidents that might attend our descent. The lunch-basket and our coats were also securely fastened, and the anchor partly unlashed and made ready to be dropped.
I held the barometer, with eyes glued upon its face, ready to call out our future altitudes. My companion, with the valve-rope in his right and the ballast-spoon within reach, was still gazing earnestly at the fields in the distance, where we hoped we might stand alive a few minutes later.
Not a word had been spoken for some time, when the captain said:
“Our landing, I think, will be a hard one. I dislike the way those trees are scattered beyond that narrow valley. We never should have allowed the storm to reach our heels,—but it has to go now——,” and his hand gives the valve-rope a long and heavy pull.
We can hear the gas sputter as it leaves the creaking silk.
Instantly the barometer drops. We have started on our final descent.
The captain’s fondness for “valving” had set us falling again at an awful speed, and the sand he was throwing out was rising around the “Rolla” in little thin clouds, and dropping like hail on the silk above us.
I looked down. The earth was rising!—rising to meet us, like a fabulous mother eager to receive her children in her outstretched arms.