hour.

The "Albatross" had thus to fly before the wind or rather she had to
be left to be driven by the current, from which she could neither
mount nor escape. But in following this unchanging trajectory she was
bearing due south, towards those polar regions which Robur had
endeavored to avoid. And now he was no longer master of her course;
she would go where the hurricane took her.

Tom Turner was at the helm, and it required all his skill to keep her
straight. In the first hours of the morning--if we can so call the
vague tint which began to rise over the horizon--the "Albatross" was
fifteen degrees below Cape Horn; twelve hundred miles more and she
would cross the antarctic circle. Where she was, in this month of
July, the night lasted nineteen hours and a half. The sun's disk--
without warmth, without light--only appeared above the horizon to
disappear almost immediately. At the pole the night lengthened into
one of a hundred and seventy-nine hours. Everything showed that the
"Albatross" was about to plunge into an abyss.

During the day an observation, had it been possible, would have given
66 degrees 40' south latitude. The aeronef was within fourteen hundred
miles of the pole.

Irresistibly was she drawn towards this inaccessible corner of the
globe, her speed eating up, so to speak, her weight, although she
weighed less than before, owing to the flattening of the earth at the
pole. It seemed as though she could have dispensed altogether with
her suspensory screws. And soon the fury of the storm reached such a
height that Robur thought it best to reduce the speed of her helices