Facing the Flag by Jules Verne
page 71 of 232 (30%)
page 71 of 232 (30%)
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A dead and disquieting silence reigns on board. I begin to wonder
whether I am not the only living being in the ship. Now I feel an irresistible torpor coming over me. The air is vitiated. I cannot breathe. My chest is bursting. I try to resist, but it is impossible to do so. The temperature rises to such a degree that I am compelled to divest myself of part of my clothing. Then I lie me down in a corner. My heavy eyelids close, and I sink into a prostration that eventually forces me into heavy slumber. How long have I been asleep? I cannot say. Is it night? Is it day? I know not. I remark, however, that I breathe more easily, and that the air is no longer poisoned carbonic acid. Was the air renewed while I slept? Has the door been opened? Has anybody been in here? Yes, here is the proof of it! In feeling about, my hand has come in contact with a mug filled with a liquid that exhales an inviting odor. I raise it to my lips, which, are burning, for I am suffering such an agony of thirst that I would even drink brackish water. It is ale--an ale of excellent quality--which refreshes and comforts me, and I drain the pint to the last drop. But if they have not condemned me to die of thirst, neither have they condemned me to die of hunger, I suppose? |
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