"Time to call that roll," he at last exclaimed in a voice with some
pretensions to firmness; "Barbican! MacNicholl!"

He listens anxiously for a reply. None comes. A snow-wrapt grave at
midnight is not more silent. In vain does he try to catch even the
faintest sound of breathing, though he listens intently enough to hear
the beating of their hearts; but he hears only his own.

"Call that roll again!" he mutters in a voice far less assured than
before; "Barbican! MacNicholl!"

The same fearful unearthly stillness.

"The thing is getting decidedly monotonous!" he exclaimed, still
speaking French. Then rapidly recovering his consciousness as the full
horror of the situation began to break on his mind, he went on muttering
audibly: "Have they really hopped the twig? Bah! Fudge! what has not
been able to knock the life out of one little Frenchman can't have
killed two Americans! They're all right! But first and foremost, let us
enlighten the situation!"

So saying, he contrived without much difficulty to get on his feet.
Balancing himself then for a moment, he began groping about for the gas.
But he stopped suddenly.

"Hold on a minute!" he cried; "before lighting this match, let us see if
the gas has been escaping. Setting fire to a mixture of air and hydrogen
would make a pretty how-do-you-do! Such an explosion would infallibly
burst the Projectile, which so far seems all right, though I'm blest if