“Pooh! our mill would only go the faster!”

“There is no need for it to go so very fast,” replied Cyrus Harding.  “It is known by experience that the greatest quantity of work is performed by a mill when the number of turns made by the sails in a minute is six times the number of feet traversed by the wind in a second.  A moderate breeze, which passes over twenty-four feet to the second, will give sixteen turns to the sails during a minute, and there is no need of more.”

“Exactly!” cried Herbert, “a fine breeze is blowing from the northeast, which will soon do our business for us.”

There was no reason for delaying the inauguration of the mill, for the settlers were eager to taste the first piece of bread in Lincoln Island.  On this morning two or three bushels of wheat were ground, and the next day at breakfast a magnificent loaf, a little heavy perhaps, although raised with yeast, appeared on the table at Granite House.  Every one munched away at it with a pleasure which may be easily understood.

In the meanwhile, the stranger had not reappeared.  Several times Gideon Spilett and Herbert searched the forest in the neighborhood of Granite House, without meeting or finding any trace of him.  They became seriously uneasy at this prolonged absence.  Certainly, the former savage of Tabor island could not be perplexed how to live in the forest, abounding in game, but was it not to be feared that he had resumed his habits, and that this freedom would revive in him his wild instincts?  However, Harding, by a sort of presentiment, doubtless, always persisted in saying that the fugitive would return.

“Yes, he will return!” he repeated with a confidence which his companions could not share.  “When this unfortunate man was on Tabor Island, he knew himself to be alone!  Here, he knows that fellow-men are awaiting him!  Since he has partially spoken of his past life, the poor penitent will return to tell the whole, and from that day he will belong to us!”

The event justified Cyrus Harding’s predictions.  On the 3rd of December, Herbert had left the plateau to go and fish on the southern bank of the lake.  He was unarmed, and till then had never taken any precautions for defense, as dangerous animals had not shown themselves on that part of the island.

Meanwhile, Pencroft and Neb were working in the poultry-yard, while Harding and the reporter were occupied at the Chimneys in making soda, the store of soap being exhausted.

Suddenly cries resounded,—­

“Help! help!”

Cyrus Harding and the reporter, being at too great a distance, had not been able to hear the shouts.  Pencroft and Neb, leaving the poultry-yard in all haste, rushed towards the lake.

But before then, the stranger, whose presence at this place no one had suspected, crossed Creek Glycerine, which separated the plateau from the forest, and bounded up the opposite bank.