A miracle had saved my life, but my voyage had been a series of imprudences, committed by a lunatic, and I had not been able to prevent them.
May this terrible narrative, though instructing those who read it, not discourage the explorers of the air.
A WINTER AMID THE ICE
CHAPTER I
THE BLACK FLAG
The curé of the ancient church of Dunkirk rose at five o’clock on the 12th of May, 18—, to perform, according to his custom, low mass for the benefit of a few pious sinners.
Attired in his priestly robes, he was about to proceed to the altar, when a man entered the sacristy, at once joyous and frightened. He was a sailor of some sixty years, but still vigorous and sturdy, with, an open, honest countenance.
“Monsieur the curé,” said he, “stop a moment, if you please.”
“Monsieur the curé,” said he, “stop a moment, if you please.”