In the light of the lamp I examined him. He was about thirty years of age, cool, phlegmatic, with resolute physiognomy—the English officer in all his native impassibility—no more disturbed than if he had been on board the Standard, operating with extraordinary sang-froid, I might even say, with the precision of a machine.
“On coming through the tunnel I estimated its length at about fifty yards,” he remarked.
“Yes, Lieutenant, about fifty yards from one extremity to the other.”
This calculation must have been pretty exact, since the new tunnel cut on a level with the coast is thirty-five feet in length.
The order was given to go ahead, and the Sword moved forward very slowly for fear of colliding against the rocky side.
Sometimes we came near enough to it to distinguish a black mass ahead of it, but a turn of the wheel put us in the right direction again. Navigating a submarine boat in the open sea is difficult enough. How much more so in the confines of a lagoon!
After five minutes’ manoeuvring, the Sword, which was kept at about a fathom below the surface, had not succeeded in sighting the orifice.
“Perhaps it would be better to return to the surface, Lieutenant,” I said. “We should then be able to see where we are.”
“I think you are right, Mr. Hart, if you can point out just about where the tunnel is located.”
“I think I can.”