"No doubt," answered Barbicane, "but we should not have had room enough."
"Oh, we might have been packed a little tighter!"
"The fact is," answered Nicholl, "that oxen, cows, bulls, and horses, all those ruminants would be useful on the lunar continent. Unfortunately we cannot make our projectile either a stable or a cowshed."
"But at least," said Michel Ardan, "we might have brought an ass, nothing but a little ass, the courageous and patient animal old Silenus loved to exhibit. I am fond of those poor asses! They are the least favoured animals in creation. They are not only beaten during their lifetime, but are still beaten after their death!"
"What do you mean by that?" asked Barbicane.
"Why, don't they use his skin to make drums of?"
Barbicane and Nicholl could not help laughing at this absurd reflection.
But a cry from their merry companion stopped them; he was bending over
Satellite's niche, and rose up saying—
"Good! Satellite is no longer ill."
"Ah!" said Nicholl.
"No!" resumed Michel, "he is dead. Now," he added in a pitiful tone, "this will be embarrassing! I very much fear, poor Diana, that you will not leave any of your race in the lunar regions!"