Uncomfortable as was their temporary abode, Servadac and his
attendant made no complaints; neither of them was dainty
in the matter either of board or lodging. After dinner,
leaving his orderly to stow away the remains of the repast
in what he was pleased to term the "cupboard of his stomach."
Captain Servadac turned out into the open air to smoke his pipe
upon the edge of the cliff. The shades of night were drawing on.
An hour previously, veiled in heavy clouds, the sun had sunk
below the horizon that bounded the plain beyond the Shelif.

The sky presented a most singular appearance. Towards the north,
although the darkness rendered it impossible to see beyond
a quarter of a mile, the upper strata of the atmosphere were
suffused with a rosy glare. No well-defined fringe of light,
nor arch of luminous rays, betokened a display of aurora borealis,
even had such a phenomenon been possible in these latitudes;
and the most experienced meteorologist would have been puzzled
to explain the cause of this striking illumination on this 31st
of December, the last evening of the passing year.

But Captain Servadac was no meteorologist, and it is to be
doubted whether, since leaving school, he had ever opened his "Course
of Cosmography." Besides, he had other thoughts to occupy his mind.
The prospects of the morrow offered serious matter for consideration.
The captain was actuated by no personal animosity against the count;
though rivals, the two men regarded each other with sincere respect;
they had simply reached a crisis in which one of them was _de trop;_
which of them, fate must decide.

At eight o'clock, Captain Servadac re-entered the gourbi, the single