“Nicholl!  Barbicane!”

He waited anxiously.  No answer.  Not even a sigh to indicate that the hearts of his companions still beat.  He reiterated his call.  Same silence.

“The devil!” said he.  “They seem as though they had fallen from the fifth story upon their heads!  Bah!” he added with the imperturbable confidence that nothing could shake, “if a Frenchman can get upon his knees, two Americans will have no difficulty in getting upon their feet.  But, first of all, let us have a light on the subject.”

Ardan felt life come back to him in streams.  His blood became calm, and resumed its ordinary circulation.  Fresh efforts restored his equilibrium.  He succeeded in getting up, took a match out of his pocket, and struck it; then putting it to the burner he lighted the gas.  The meter was not in the least damaged.  The gas had not escaped.  Besides, the smell would have betrayed it, and had this been the case, Michel Ardan could not with impunity have lighted a match in a medium filled with hydrogen.  The gas, mixed in the air, would have produced a detonating mixture, and an explosion would have finished what a shock had perhaps begun.

As soon as the gas was lighted Ardan bent down over his two companions.  Their bodies were thrown one upon the other, Nicholl on the top, Barbicane underneath.

Ardan raised the captain, propped him up against a divan, and rubbed him vigorously.  This friction, administered skilfully, reanimated Nicholl, who opened his eyes, instantly recovered his presence of mind, seized Ardan’s hand, and then looking round him—­

“And Barbicane?” he asked.

“Each in turn,” answered Michel Ardan tranquilly.  “I began with you, Nicholl, because you were on the top.  Now I’ll go to Barbicane.”

That said, Ardan and Nicholl raised the president of the Gun Club and put him on a divan.  Barbicane seemed to have suffered more than his companions.  He was bleeding, but Nicholl was glad to find that the hemorrhage only came from a slight wound in his shoulder.  It was a simple scratch, which he carefully closed.

Nevertheless, Barbicane was some time before he came to himself, which frightened his two friends, who did not spare their friction.

“He is breathing, however,” said Nicholl, putting his ear to the breast of the wounded man.

“Yes,” answered Ardan, “he is breathing like a man who is in the habit of doing it daily.  Rub, Nicholl, rub with all your might.”

And the two improvised practitioners set to work with such a will and managed so well that Barbicane at last came to his senses.  He opened his eyes, sat up, took the hands of his two friends, and his first words were—­

“Nicholl, are we going on?”

Nicholl and Ardan looked at one another.  They had not yet thought about the projectile.  Their first anxiety had been for the travellers, not for the vehicle.

“Well, really, are we going on?” repeated Michel Ardan.