“Hark,” said Rory, holding up his hand; “talk about thunder, list to that.”
Both leant over the car and looked earthwards. What could it mean, that low, deep, long-continued thunderpeal? Was a storm raging beneath them? Yes, but not of the kind they at first imagined. For see, from where yonder hill starts abruptly from the glen, rise immense clouds of silvery white, and roll slowly adown the valley. The balloon hangs suspended right above the great geyser, which is now in full eruption.
“It is as I thought,” said De Vere; “let us descend a little way;” and he opened the valve as he spoke.
The balloon made a downward rush as he did so, as if she meant to plunge herself and all her occupants into the very midst of the boiling cauldron. The steam from the geyser had almost reached their feet; the car thrilled beneath them, while the never-ceasing thunder pealed louder and louder.
“My conscience!” roared honest Sandy, losing all control over himself; “we’ll be boiled alive like so many partans!”
(Partans: Scottish, crabs.)
De Vere coolly threw overboard a bag or two of sand, and the balloon mounted again like a skylark. And not too soon either, for, awful, to relate, in his sudden terror Sandy had made a grab at the valve-rope, as if to check her downward speed. Had not Rory speedily pulled him back, the consequences would have been too dreadful to think of.
De Vere only laughed; but he held up one finger by way of admonishing the doctor as he said, “Neever catch hold of de reins ven anoder man is driving.”
“But,” said Rory, “didn’t you go a trifle too near that time, Mister de Vere?”
“A leetle,” said the Frenchman, coolly. “It was noding.”