“Saint Louis,” blurted out Servadac, savagely.
Colonel Murphy slightly smiled.
Proof against all interruption, Count Timascheff, as if he had not heard it, went on without pausing. He related how the schooner had pushed her way onwards to the south, and had reached the Gulf of Cabes; and how she had ascertained for certain that the Sahara Sea had no longer an existence.
The smile of disdain again crossed the colonel’s face; he could not conceal his opinion that such a destiny for the work of a Frenchman could be no matter of surprise.
“Our next discovery,” continued the count, “was that a new coast had been upheaved right along in front of the coast of Tripoli, the geological formation of which was altogether strange, and which extended to the north as far as the proper place of Malta.”
“And Malta,” cried Servadac, unable to control himself any longer; “Malta—town, forts, soldiers, governor, and all—has vanished just like Algeria.”
For a moment a cloud rested upon the colonel’s brow, only to give place to an expression of decided incredulity.
“The statement seems highly incredible,” he said.
“Incredible?” repeated Servadac. “Why is it that you doubt my word?”
The captain’s rising wrath did not prevent the colonel from replying coolly, “Because Malta belongs to England.”