"We are lost!"

"In the Antilles there are currents of air which travel a hundred leagues
an hour! On the occasion of Napoleon's coronation, Gavnerin let off a
balloon illuminated with coloured lamps, at eleven o'clock in the
evening! The wind blew from the N.N.E.; the next morning at daybreak the
inhabitants of Rome saluted its passage above the dome of St. Peter's.
We will go farther."

I scarcely heard him; everything was buzzing around me! There was an
opening in the clouds!

"See that city, my host;" said the unknown. "It is Spire. Nothing else!"

I dared not lean over the railing of the car. Nevertheless I perceived a
little black spot. This was Spire. The broad Rhine looked like a riband,
the great roads like threads. Above our heads the sky was of a deep
azure; I was benumbed with the cold. The birds had long since forsaken
us; in this rarefied sir their flight would have been impossible. We
were alone in space, and I in the presence of a strange man!

"It is useless for you to know whither I am taking you," said he, and he
threw the compass into the clouds. "A fall is a fine thing. You know
that there have been a few victims from Pilatre des Rosiers down to
Lieutenant Gale, and these misfortunes have always been caused by
imprudence. Pilatre des Rosiers ascended in company with Remain, at
Boulogne, on the 13th of June, 1785. To his balloon, inflated with gas,
he had suspended a _mongolfier_ filled with warm air, undoubtedly to
save the trouble of letting off gas, or throwing out ballast. It was
like putting a chafing-dish beneath a powder-cask. The imprudent men