"What is it?" exclaimed every one around him.
"What is it?"
"Come, speak!"
"It is, simpletons," howled the terrible Secretary, "it is that the projectile only weighs 19,250 lbs.!"
"Well?"
"And that it displaces twenty-eight tons, or in other words 56,000 lbs., and that consequently it floats!"
Ah! what stress the worthy man laid on the verb "float!" And it was true! All, yes! all these savants had forgotten this fundamental law, namely, that on account of its specific lightness, the projectile, after having been drawn by its fall to the greatest depths of the ocean, must naturally return to the surface. And now it was floating quietly at the mercy of the waves.
The boats were put to sea. J. T. Maston and his friends had rushed into them! Excitement was at its height! Every heart beat loudly whilst they advanced to the projectile. What did it contain? Living or dead? Living, yes! living, at least unless death had struck Barbicane and his two friends since they had hoisted the flag. Profound silence reigned on the boats. All were breathless. Eyes no longer saw. One of the scuttles of the projectile was open. Some pieces of glass remained in the frame, showing that it had been broken. This scuttle was actually five feet above the water.
A boat came alongside, that of J. T. Maston, and J. T. Maston rushed to the broken window.
At that moment they heard a clear and merry voice, the voice of Michel Ardan, exclaiming in an accent of triumph,—