Servadac was stupefied; he felt instinctively that he was not dreaming, and yet was powerless to solve the mystery. He was not, however, the man to puzzle himself for long over any insoluble problem. “Come what may,” he presently exclaimed, “we will make up our minds for the future to be surprised at nothing.”
“Right, captain,” replied Ben Zoof; “and, first of all, let us settle our little score with Count Timascheff.”
Beyond the ditch lay a small piece of meadow land, about an acre in extent. A soft and delicious herbage carpeted the soil, whilst trees formed a charming framework to the whole. No spot could have been chosen more suitable for the meeting between the two adversaries.
Servadac cast a hasty glance round. No one was in sight. “We are the first on the field,” he said.
“Not so sure of that, sir,” said Ben Zoof.
“What do you mean?” asked Servadac, looking at his watch, which he had set as nearly as possible by the sun before leaving the gourbi; “it is not nine o’clock yet.”
“Look up there, sir. I am much mistaken if that is not the sun;” and as Ben Zoof spoke, he pointed directly overhead to where a faint white disc was dimly visible through the haze of clouds.
“Nonsense!” exclaimed Servadac. “How can the sun be in the zenith, in the month of January, in lat. 39 degrees N.?”
“Can’t say, sir. I only know the sun is there; and at the rate he has been traveling, I would lay my cap to a dish of couscous that in less than three hours he will have set.”
Hector Servadac, mute and motionless, stood with folded arms. Presently he roused himself, and began to look about again. “What means all this?” he murmured. “Laws of gravity disturbed! Points of the compass reversed! The length of day reduced one half! Surely this will indefinitely postpone my meeting with the count. Something has happened; Ben Zoof and I cannot both be mad!”