The early rising peasants are waving their arms and crying to us:  “Let yourselves drop!” But we go along steadily, neither rising nor falling, leaning over the edge of the basket and watching the world fleeing under our feet.

Jovis sights another city far off in the distance.  It approaches; everywhere are old church spires.  They are delightful, seen thus from above.  Where are we?  Is this Courtrai?  Is it Ghent?

We are already very near it, and we see that it is surrounded by water and crossed in every direction by canals.  One might think it a Venice of the north.  Just as we are passing so near to a church tower that our long guy-rope almost touches it, the chimes begin to ring three o’clock.  The sweet, clear sounds rise to us from this frail roof which we have almost touched in our wandering course.  It is a charming greeting, a friendly welcome from Holland.  We answer with our siren, whose raucous voice echoes throughout the streets.

It was Bruges.  But we have hardly lost sight of it when my neighbor, Paul Bessand, asks me:  “Don’t you see something over there, to the right, in front of us?  It looks like a river.”

And, indeed, far ahead of us stretches a bright highway, in the light of the dawning day.  Yes, it looks like a river, an immense river full of islands.

“Get ready for the descent,” cried the captain.  He makes M. Mallet leave his net and return to the basket; then we pack the barometers and everything that could be injured by possible shocks.  M. Bessand exclaims:  “Look at the masts over there to the left!  We are at the sea!”

Fogs had hidden it from us until then.  The sea was everywhere, to the left and opposite us, while to our right the Scheldt, which had joined the Moselle, extended as far as the sea, its mouths vaster than a lake.

It was necessary to descend within a minute or two.  The rope to the escape-valve, which had been religiously enclosed in a little white bag and placed in sight of all so that no one would touch it, is unrolled, and M. Mallet holds it in his hand while Captain Jovis looks for a favorable landing.

Behind us the thunder was rumbling and not a single bird followed our mad flight.

“Pull!” cried Jovis.

We were passing over a canal.  The basket trembled and tipped over slightly.  The guy-rope touched the tall trees on both banks.  But our speed is so great that the long rope now trailing does not seem to slow down, and we pass with frightful rapidity over a large farm, from which the bewildered chickens, pigeons and ducks fly away, while the cows, cats and dogs run, terrified, toward the house.

Just one-half bag of ballast is left.  Jovis throws it overboard, and Le Horla flies lightly across the roof.

The captain once more cries:  “The escape-valve!”

M. Mallet reaches for the rope and hangs to it, and we drop like an arrow.  With a slash of a knife the cord which retains the anchor is cut, and we drag this grapple behind us, through a field of beets.  Here are the trees.