The three bold companions shook hands.

“God help us!” said the religious president.

Michel Ardan and Nicholl lay down on their beds in the centre of the floor.

“Thirteen minutes to eleven,” murmured the captain.

Twenty seconds more!  Barbicane rapidly put out the gas, and lay down beside his companions.

The profound silence was only broken by the chronometer beating the seconds.

Suddenly a frightful shock was felt, and the projectile, under the impulsion of 6,000,000,000 litres of gas developed by the deflagration of the pyroxyle, rose into space.

CHAPTER II.

THE FIRST HALF-HOUR.

What had happened?  What was the effect of the frightful shock?  Had the ingenuity of the constructors of the projectile been attended by a happy result?  Was the effect of the shock deadened, thanks to the springs, the four buffers, the water-cushions, and the movable partitions?  Had they triumphed over the frightful impulsion of the initial velocity of 11,000 metres a second?  This was evidently the question the thousands of witnesses of the exciting scene asked themselves.  They forgot the object of the journey, and only thought of the travellers!  Suppose one of them—­J.T.  Maston, for instance—­had been able to get a glimpse of the interior of the projectile, what would he have seen?

Nothing then.  The obscurity was profound in the bullet.  Its cylindro-conical sides had resisted perfectly.  There was not a break, a crack, or a dint in them.  The admirable projectile was not hurt by the intense deflagration of the powders, instead of being liquefied, as it was feared, into a shower of aluminium.

In the interior there was very little disorder on the whole.  A few objects had been violently hurled up to the roof, but the most important did not seem to have suffered from the shock.  Their fastenings were intact.

On the movable disc, crushed down to the bottom by the smashing of the partitions and the escape of the water, three bodies lay motionless.  Did Barbicane, Nicholl, and Michel Ardan still breathe?  Was the projectile nothing but a metal coffin carrying three corpses into space?

A few minutes after the departure of the bullet one of these bodies moved, stretched out its arms, lifted up its head, and succeeded in getting upon its knees.  It was Michel Ardan.  He felt himself, uttered a sonorous “Hum,” then said—­

“Michel Ardan, complete.  Now for the others!”

The courageous Frenchman wanted to get up, but he could not stand.  His head vacillated; his blood, violently sent up to his head, blinded him.  He felt like a drunken man.

“Brrr!” said he.  “I feel as though I had been drinking two bottles of Corton, only that was not so agreeable to swallow!”

Then passing his hand across his forehead several times, and rubbing his temples, he called out in a firm voice—­