On this barren rock they had now existed for nine days.  A few provisions taken from the magazine of Granite House before the catastrophe, a little fresh water from the rain which had fallen in a hollow of the rock, was all that the unfortunate colonists possessed.  Their last hope, the vessel, had been shattered to pieces.  They had no means of quitting the reef; no fire, nor any means of obtaining it.  It seemed that they must inevitably perish.

This day, the 18th of March, there remained only provisions for two days, although they limited their consumption to the bare necessaries of life.  All their science and intelligence could avail them nothing in their present position.  They were in the hand of God.

Cyrus Harding was calm, Gideon Spilett more nervous, and Pencroft, a prey to sullen anger, walked to and fro on the rock.  Herbert did not for a moment quit the engineer’s side, as if demanding from him that assistance he had no power to give.  Neb and Ayrton were resigned to their fate.

“Ah, what a misfortune! what a misfortune!” often repeated Pencroft.  “If we had but a walnut-shell to take us to Tabor Island!  But we have nothing, nothing!”

“Captain Nemo did right to die,” said Neb.

During the five ensuing days Cyrus Harding and his unfortunate companions husbanded their provisions with the most extreme care, eating only what would prevent them from dying of starvation.  Their weakness was extreme.  Herbert and Neb began to show symptoms of delirium.

Under these circumstances was it possible for them to retain even the shadow of a hope?  No!  What was their sole remaining chance?  That a vessel should appear in sight of the rock?  But they knew only too well from experience that no ships ever visited this part of the Pacific.  Could they calculate that, by a truly providential coincidence, the Scotch yacht would arrive precisely at this time in search of Ayrton at Tabor Island?  It was scarcely probable; and, besides, supposing she should come there, as the colonists had not been able to deposit a notice pointing out Ayrton’s change of abode, the commander of the yacht, after having explored Tabor Island without results, would again set sail and return to lower latitudes.

No! no hope of being saved could be retained, and a horrible death, death from hunger and thirst, awaited them upon this rock.

Already they were stretched on the rock, inanimate, and no longer conscious of what passed around them.  Ayrton alone, by a supreme effort, from time to time raised his head, and cast a despairing glance over the desert ocean.

But on the morning of the 24th of March Ayrton’s arms were extended toward a point in the horizon; he raised himself, at first on his knees, then upright, and his hand seemed to make a signal.

A sail was in sight off the rock.  She was evidently not without an object.  The reef was the mark for which she was making in a direct line, under all steam, and the unfortunate colonists might have made her out some hours before if they had had the strength to watch the horizon.