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favorable result.

Ardan at first tried to encourage the Captain by whispers of a lively
and hopeful nature, but not yet understanding why M'Nicholl did not
deign to make a single reply, he grew reserved by degrees and at last
would not speak a single word. He worked at Barbican, however, just as
before.

M'Nicholl interrupted himself every moment to lay his ear on the breast
of the unconscious man. At first he had shaken his head quite
despondingly, but by degrees he found himself more and more encouraged
to persist.

"He breathes!" he whispered at last.

"Yes, he has been breathing for some time," replied Ardan, quietly,
still unconsciously speaking French. "A little more rubbing and pulling
and pounding will make him as spry as a young grasshopper."

They worked at him, in fact, so vigorously, intelligently and
perseveringly, that, after what they considered a long hour's labor,
they had the delight of seeing the pale face assume a healthy hue, the
inert limbs give signs of returning animation, and the breathing become
strong and regular.

At last, Barbican suddenly opened his eyes, started into an upright
position on the sofa, took his friends by the hands, and, in a voice
showing complete consciousness, demanded eagerly:

"Ardan, M'Nicholl, are we moving?"

His friends looked at each other, a little amused, but more perplexed.
In their anxiety regarding their own and their friend's recovery, they
had never thought of asking such a question. His words recalled them at
once to a full sense of their situation.

"Moving? Blessed if I can tell!" said Ardan, still speaking French.

"We may be lying fifty feet deep in a Florida marsh, for all I know,"
observed M'Nicholl.

"Or, likely as not, in the bottom of the Gulf of Mexico," suggested
Ardan, still in French.

"Suppose we find out," observed Barbican, jumping up to try, his voice
as clear and his step as firm as ever.

But trying is one thing, and finding out another. Having no means of
comparing themselves with external objects, they could not possibly tell
whether they were moving, or at an absolute stand-still. Though our
Earth is whirling us continually around the Sun at the tremendous speed
of 500 miles a minute, its inhabitants are totally unconscious of the
slightest motion. It was the same with our travellers. Through their own
personal consciousness they could tell absolutely nothing. Were they
shooting through space like a meteor? They could not tell. Had they
fallen back and buried themselves deep in the sandy soil of Florida, or,
still more likely, hundreds of fathoms deep beneath the waters of the
Gulf of Mexico? They could not form the slightest idea.

Listening evidently could do no good. The profound silence proved
nothing. The padded walls of the Projectile were too thick to admit any
sound whether of wind, water, or human beings. Barbican, however, was
soon struck forcibly by one circumstance.

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