Pencroft, his eyes fixed on the ground, still looked for his box.  He even climbed up the left bank of the river from its mouth to the angle where the raft had been moored.  He returned to the plateau, went over it in every direction, searched among the high grass on the border of the forest, all in vain.

It was five in the evening when he and Herbert re-entered the cave.  It is useless to say that the darkest corners of the passages were ransacked before they were obliged to give it up in despair.  Towards six o’clock, when the sun was disappearing behind the high lands of the west, Herbert, who was walking up and down on the strand, signalized the return of Neb and Spilett.

They were returning alone! . . . .  The boy’s heart sank; the sailor had not been deceived in his forebodings; the engineer, Cyrus Harding, had not been found!

The reporter, on his arrival, sat down on a rock, without saying anything.  Exhausted with fatigue, dying of hunger, he had not strength to utter a word.

As to Neb, his red eyes showed how he had cried, and the tears which he could not restrain told too clearly that he had lost all hope.

The reporter recounted all that they had done in their attempt to recover Cyrus Harding.  He and Neb had surveyed the coast for a distance of eight miles and consequently much beyond the place where the balloon had fallen the last time but one, a fall which was followed by the disappearance of the engineer and the dog Top.  The shore was solitary; not a vestige of a mark.  Not even a pebble recently displaced; not a trace on the sand; not a human footstep on all that part of the beach.  It was clear that that portion of the shore had never been visited by a human being.  The sea was as deserted as the land, and it was there, a few hundred feet from the coast, that the engineer must have found a tomb.

As Spilett ended his account, Neb jumped up, exclaiming in a voice which showed how hope struggled within him, “No! he is not dead! he can’t be dead!  It might happen to any one else, but never to him!  He could get out of anything!” Then his strength forsaking him, “Oh!  I can do no more!” he murmured.

“Neb,” said Herbert, running to him, “we will find him!  God will give him back to us!  But in the meantime you are hungry, and you must eat something.”

So saying, he offered the poor Negro a few handfuls of shell-fish, which was indeed wretched and insufficient food.  Neb had not eaten anything for several hours, but he refused them.  He could not, would not live without his master.

As to Gideon Spilett, he devoured the shell-fish, then he laid himself down on the sand, at the foot of a rock.  He was very weak, but calm.  Herbert went up to him, and taking his hand, “Sir,” said he, “we have found a shelter which will be better than lying here.  Night is advancing.  Come and rest!  To-morrow we will search farther.”

The reporter got up, and guided by the boy went towards the cave.  On the way, Pencroft asked him in the most natural tone, if by chance he happened to have a match or two.