High overhead arched the rocky roof, blackened by smoke, and looking more gloomy than nature had intended. The side walls were likewise irregular, now showing tiny niches and nooks, then jutting out to form awkward points and elbows, which were but partially disguised by such articles of wear and daily use as the exile had collected during the years gone by, or since his occupancy first began.
So much the professor took in with his initial glances, but then he left Waldo and his brother to look more closely, himself giving thought to the being whom they had so happily saved from the whirlpool.
“Professor Edgecombe!” he again exclaimed, grasping those roughened hands to press them cordially. “I ought to have recognised you at sight, no doubt, since I have watched your ascents time and time again.”
The exile smiled faintly, shaking his head and giving another sigh.
“Ah, me! 'twas vastly different, then. I only marvel that you should give me credit when I lay claim to that name, so long—it has long faded from the public's memory, sir.”
But uncle Phaeton shook his head, decidedly.
“No, no, I assure you, my friend; far from it. Whenever the topic is brought to the front; whenever aerostatics are discussed, your name and fame are sure to play a prominent part. And yet,—you disappeared so long ago, never being heard of after—”
“After sailing away upon the storm for which I had waited and prayed, for so many weary, heart-sick months!”
“So the rumour ran, but we all believed that must be an exaggeration, and not for a long time was all hope abandoned. Then, more hearts than one felt sore and sad at thoughts of your untimely fate.”
“A fate infinitely worse than ordinary death such as was credited me,” huskily muttered the exile. “Ten years,—and ever since I have been here, helpless to extricate myself, doomed to a living death, which none other can ever fully realise! Doomed to—to—”