“But how was that? Where did the water come from? Not from the sea.”
“No, from the draining of these hills or mountains all round, upon which you have seen the clouds gather and melt into rain.”
“And that put out the volcanic fire?” said Carey, quickly.
“Oh, no,” replied the doctor, smiling. “If those trickling streams had run down into a lake of fire they would have flown up again in steam with tremendous explosions. This lake of water did not form until the volcano was quite extinct, and—”
“Shall I cut up the wittles, sir?” said Bostock, who had been impatiently waiting for the doctor to end his lecture.
“Here, fall to, Carey; Bostock is getting ravenous.” And they ate their lunch, with Carey longing to go down the inner slope to examine the lake for fish and try to find out how deep it was.
It was a double feast, one for the body and one for the brain, the long walk and exertion having made all hungry, and as soon as this was appeased the doctor led the way for the final cone to be climbed.
Here Carey feasted indeed—the glass showing him through the limpid air reef after reef silvered with spray, and what were evidently islands, looking like faint amethystine clouds floating between sea and sky.
These islands lay to the north-east, but though they all looked long and carefully there was no sign of any great tract of land or continent.
“These are the times, Carey, when one feels one’s ignorance,” observed the doctor.