very well that the Nautilus is approaching some inhabited land, and that if chance befriend us it would be cruel to sacrifice my companions to my passion for discovery. I must follow—perhaps lead them. But would the opportunity ever present itself? Then man, forcibly deprived of his liberty, wishes for it; the connoisseur—the savant fears it.
On the 21st January, 1868, at midday, the mate came up to take the sun’s altitude. I was on the platform, and, lighting a cigar, I watched the operation. It seemed evident to me that this man did not understand French, for I often spoke my thoughts aloud, and the very words would have drawn from him some involuntary sign of attention if he had understood the language, but he remained impassible and silent.
While he was taking the observation, one of the sailors—the same who had accompanied us in our first excursion to the island of Crespo—came to rub up the lantern glasses. I then examined the fixing of this apparatus whose power is multiplied by lenticular rings arranged as in lighthouses, and which keep the light in the horizontal plane. The electric lamp was so arranged as to yield all its illuminating power. The light was produced in a vacuum, so the regularity and intensity were assured at the same time. By these means the points of graphite between which the light was developed were economised. This economy was very important for Captain Nemo, who could not easily renew the points. But under these conditions the expenditure was almost insensible.
So soon as the Nautilus was ready to recommence her submarine journey, I descended to the saloon. The panels were shut down and the course directed to the west.
