The Nautilus was now making its top speed, and the instruments indicated a northerly direction.  Whither was it flying?  That night we covered two hundred leagues of the Atlantic.  Onward we kept our course, the speed never lessening, and for fifteen or twenty days, during which we prisoners never saw the captain or his lieutenant, this headlong race continued.

VI.—­Our Escape from the Nautilus

Poor Ned Land was in despair, and Conseil and I had to watch him carefully lest he might kill himself.  One morning he said to me: 

“We are going to fly to-night.  I have taken the reckoning, and make out that twenty miles or so to the east is land.  I have got a little food and water, and Conseil and I will be near the opening into the small boat at ten.  Meet us there.  If we do not escape, they sha’n’t take me alive.”

“I will go with you,” I said.  “At least we can die together.”

Wishing to verify the direction of the Nautilus, I went to the saloon.  We were going N.N.E. with frightful speed at a depth of twenty-five fathoms.  I took a last look at all the natural marvels and art treasures collected in this strange museum, a collection doomed to perish in the depths of the ocean with the man who had made it.  Back in my own room I donned my sea garments, and placed all my notes carefully about my clothing.  My heart was beating so loudly that I feared my agitation might betray me if I met Captain Nemo.  I decided it was best to lie down on my bed in the hope of calming my nerves, and thus to pass the time till the hour determined upon for our attempt.  Ten o’clock was on the point of striking, when I heard Captain Nemo playing a weird and sad melody, and I was struck with the sudden terror of having to pass through the saloon while he was there.  I must make the attempt, and softly I crept to the door of the saloon and softly opened it.  Captain Nemo was still playing his subdued melody; but the room was in darkness, and slowly I made my way across it to the library door.  I had almost opened this when a sigh from him made me pause.

He had risen from the organ, and, as some rays of light were now admitted from the library, I could see him coming toward me with folded arms, gliding like a ghost rather than walking.  His breast heaved with sobs, and I heard him murmur these words, the last of his I heard:  “Enough!  O God, enough!” Was it remorse escaping thus from the conscience of this mysterious being?

Had I not seen it begin with the tears in his eyes at the death of the Englishman whom he had buried in the coral cemetery, and who was doubtless a victim of one of his acts of destruction?