VERNANIA: The Celebrated Works of Jules Verne in One Edition. Жюль Верн

that elevation could be distinguished an inextricable network of smaller streams which the river received into its bosom; others came from the west, from between numerous hills, in the midst of fertile plains.

      “We are not ninety miles from Gondokoro,” said the doctor, measuring off the distance on his map, “and less than five miles from the point reached by the explorers from the north. Let us descend with great care.”

      And, upon this, the balloon was lowered about two thousand feet.

      “Now, my friends, let us be ready, come what may.”

      “Ready it is!” said Dick and Joe, with one voice.

      “Good!”

      In a few moments the balloon was advancing along the bed of the river, and scarcely one hundred feet above the ground. The Nile measured but fifty fathoms in width at this point, and the natives were in great excitement, rushing to and fro, tumultuously, in the villages that lined the banks of the stream. At the second degree it forms a perpendicular cascade of ten feet in height, and consequently impassable by boats.

      “Here, then, is the cascade mentioned by Debono!” exclaimed the doctor.

      The basin of the river spread out, dotted with numerous islands, which Dr. Ferguson devoured with his eyes. He seemed to be seeking for a point of reference which he had not yet found.

      By this time, some blacks, having ventured in a boat just under the balloon, Kennedy saluted them with a shot from his rifle, that made them regain the bank at their utmost speed.

      “A good journey to you,” bawled Joe, “and if I were in your place, I wouldn’t try coming back again. I should be mightily afraid of a monster that can hurl thunderbolts when he pleases.”

      But, all at once, the doctor snatched up his spyglass, and directed it toward an island reposing in the middle of the river.

      “Four trees!” he exclaimed; “look, down there!” Sure enough, there were four trees standing alone at one end of it.

      “It is Bengal Island! It is the very same,” repeated the doctor, exultingly.

      “And what of that?” asked Dick.

      “It is there that we shall alight, if God permits.”

      “But, it seems to be inhabited, doctor.”

      “Joe is right; and, unless I’m mistaken, there is a group of about a score of natives on it now.”

      “We’ll make them scatter; there’ll be no great trouble in that,” responded Ferguson.

      “So be it,” chimed in the hunter.

      The sun was at the zenith as the balloon approached the island.

      The blacks, who were members of the Makado tribe, were howling lustily, and one of them waved his bark hat in the air. Kennedy took aim at him, fired, and his hat flew about him in pieces. Thereupon there was a general scamper. The natives plunged headlong into the river, and swam to the opposite bank. Immediately, there came a shower of balls from both banks, along with a perfect cloud of arrows, but without doing the balloon any damage, where it rested with its anchor snugly secured in the fissure of a rock. Joe lost no time in sliding to the ground.

      “The ladder!” cried the doctor. “Follow me, Kennedy.”

      “What do you wish, sir?”

      “Let us alight. I want a witness.”

      “Here I am!”

      “Mind your post, Joe, and keep a good lookout.”

      “Never fear, doctor; I’ll answer for all that.”

      “Come, Dick,” said the doctor, as he touched the ground.

      So saying, he drew his companion along toward a group of rocks that rose upon one point of the island; there, after searching for some time, he began to rummage among the brambles, and, in so doing, scratched his hands until they bled.

      Suddenly he grasped Kennedy’s arm, exclaiming: “Look! look!”

      “Letters!”

      Yes; there, indeed, could be descried, with perfect precision of outline, some letters carved on the rock. It was quite easy to make them out:

      “A. D.”

      “A.D.!” repeated Dr. Ferguson. “Andrea Debono— the very signature of the traveller who farthest ascended the current of the Nile.”

      “No doubt of that, friend Samuel,” assented Kennedy.

      “Are you now convinced?”

      “It is the Nile! We cannot entertain a doubt on that score now,” was the reply.

      The doctor, for the last time, examined those precious initials, the exact form and size of which he carefully noted.

      “And now,” said he—“now for the balloon!”

      “Quickly, then, for I see some of the natives getting ready to recross the river.”

      “That matters little to us now. Let the wind but send us northward for a few hours, and we shall reach Gondokoro, and press the hands of some of our countrymen.”

      Ten minutes more, and the balloon was majestically ascending, while Dr. Ferguson, in token of success, waved the English flag triumphantly from his car.

CHAPTER NINETEENTH.

      Table of Contents

      The Nile.—The Trembling Mountain.—A Remembrance of the Country.—The Narratives of the Arabs.—The Nyam-Nyams.—Joe’s Shrewd Cogitations.—The Balloon runs the Gantlet.—Aerostatic Ascensions.—Madame Blanchard.

      “Which way do we head?” asked Kennedy, as he saw his friend consulting the compass.

      “North-northeast.”

      “The deuce! but that’s not the north?”

      “No, Dick; and I’m afraid that we shall have some trouble in getting to Gondokoro. I am sorry for it; but, at last, we have succeeded in connecting the explorations from the east with those from the north; and we must not complain.”

      The balloon was now receding gradually from the Nile.

      “One last look,” said the doctor, “at this impassable latitude, beyond which the most intrepid travellers could not make their way. There are those intractable tribes, of whom Petherick, Arnaud, Miuni, and the young traveller Lejean, to whom we are indebted for the best work on the Upper Nile, have spoken.”

      “Thus, then,” added Kennedy, inquiringly, “our discoveries agree with the speculations of science.”

      “Absolutely so. The sources of the White Nile, of the Bahr-el-Abiad, are immersed in a lake as large as a sea; it is there that it takes its rise. Poesy, undoubtedly, loses something thereby. People were fond of ascribing a celestial origin to this king of rivers. The ancients gave it the name of an ocean, and were not far from believing that it flowed directly from the sun; but we must come down from these flights from time to time, and accept what science teaches us. There will not always be scientific men, perhaps; but there always will be poets.”

      “We can still see cataracts,” said Joe.

      “Those are the cataracts of Makedo, in the third degree of latitude. Nothing could be more accurate. Oh, if we could only have followed the course of the Nile for a few hours!”

      “And down yonder, below us, I see the top of a mountain,” said the hunter.

      “That is Mount Longwek, the Trembling Mountain of the Arabs. This whole country was visited