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The panels had closed on this dreadful vision, but light had not
returned to the saloon: all was silence and darkness within the
Nautilus. At wonderful speed, a hundred feet beneath the water, it
was leaving this desolate spot. Whither was it going? To the north
or south? Where was the man flying to after such dreadful
retaliation? I had returned to my room, where Ned and Conseil had
remained silent enough. I felt an insurmountable horror for Captain
Nemo. Whatever he had suffered at the hands of these men, he had no
right to punish thus. He had made me, if not an accomplice, at
least a witness of his vengeance. At eleven the electric light
reappeared. I passed into the saloon. It was deserted. I consulted
the different instruments. The Nautilus was flying northward at the
rate of twenty-five miles an hour, now on the surface, and now
thirty feet below it. On taking the bearings by the chart, I saw
that we were passing the mouth of the Manche, and that our course
was hurrying us towards the northern seas at a frightful speed.
That night we had crossed two hundred leagues of the Atlantic. The
shadows fell, and the sea was covered with darkness until the
rising of the moon. I went to my room, but could not sleep. I was
troubled with dreadful nightmare. The horrible scene of destruction
was continually before my eyes. From that day, who could tell into
what part of the North Atlantic basin the Nautilus would take us?
Still with unaccountable speed. Still in the midst of these
northern fogs. Would it touch at Spitzbergen, or on the shores of
Nova Zembla? Should we explore those unknown seas, the White Sea,
the Sea of Kara, the Gulf of Obi, the Archipelago of Liarrov, and
the unknown coast of Asia? I could not say. I could no longer judge
of the time that was passing. The clocks had been stopped on board.
It seemed, as in polar countries, that night and day no longer
followed their regular course. I felt myself being drawn into that
strange region where the foundered imagination of Edgar Poe roamed
at will. Like the fabulous Gordon Pym, at every moment I expected
to see “that veiled human figure, of larger proportions than
those of any inhabitant of the earth, thrown across the cataract
which defends the approach to the pole.” I estimated (though,
perhaps, I may be mistaken)—I estimated this adventurous
course of the Nautilus to have lasted fifteen or twenty days. And I
know not how much longer it might have lasted, had it not been for
the catastrophe which ended this voyage. Of Captain Nemo I saw
nothing whatever now, nor of his second. Not a man of the crew was
visible for an instant. The Nautilus was almost incessantly under
water. When we came to the surface to renew the air, the panels
opened and shut mechanically. There were no more marks on the
planisphere. I knew not where we were. And the Canadian, too, his
strength and patience at an end, (...)
(......)
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