"It's the deluge," shrieked one.
"The end of the world!"
"Oh, God, have mercy on us."
Hearing the men shrieking their cries of despair, the professor said calmly, but in a voice to which all listened.
"Courage, boys, now as we are going to stay here for a while we must get to work. We can't stay long, huddled together like this. Let us scoop out a hollow in the shale so as to have a place to rest upon."
His words calmed the men. With hands and lamphooks they began to dig into the soil. The task was difficult, for the airshaft in which we had taken refuge was on a considerable slope and very slippery. And we knew that it meant death if we made a false step. A resting place was made, and we were able to stop and take note of each other. We were seven: the professor, Uncle Gaspard, three miners, Pages, Comperou and Bergounhoux, and a car pusher named Carrory, and myself.
The noise in the mine continued with the same violence; there are no words with which to describe the horrible uproar. It seemed to us that our last hour had come. Mad with fear, we gazed at one another, questioningly.
"The evil genius of the mine's taking his revenge," cried one.
"It's a hole broke through from the river above," I ventured to say.
The professor said nothing. He merely shrugged his shoulder, as though he could have argued out the matter in full day, under the shade of a mulberry tree, eating an onion.