Here, then, was Nicholl, his gun on the ground, forgetful of danger, trying if possible to save the victim from its cobweb prison. At last it was accomplished, and the little bird flew joyfully away and disappeared.
Nicholl lovingly watched its flight, when he heard these words pronounced by a voice full of emotion:
“You are indeed a brave man.”
He turned. Michel Ardan was before him, repeating in a different tone:
“And a kindhearted one!”
“Michel Ardan!” cried the captain. “Why are you here?”
“To press your hand, Nicholl, and to prevent you from either killing Barbicane or being killed by him.”
“Barbicane!” returned the captain. “I have been looking for him for the last two hours in vain. Where is he hiding?”
“Nicholl!” said Michel Ardan, “this is not courteous! we ought always to treat an adversary with respect; rest assureed if Barbicane is still alive we shall find him all the more easily; because if he has not, like you, been amusing himself with freeing oppressed birds, he must be looking for you. When we have found him, Michel Ardan tells you this, there will be no duel between you.”
“Between President Barbicane and myself,” gravely replied Nicholl, “there is a rivalry which the death of one of us—”