“About an hour.”
“Too late!” cried Maston.
“Have you heard any gunshots?” asked Ardan.
“No!”
“Not one?”
“Not one! that hunter did not look as if he knew how to hunt!”
“What is to be done?” said Maston.
“We must go into the wood, at the risk of getting a ball which is not intended for us.”
“Ah!” cried Maston, in a tone which could not be mistaken, “I would rather have twenty balls in my own head than one in Barbicane’s.”
“Forward, then,” said Ardan, pressing his companion’s hand.