“Who says they have not done it?” answered Barbicane seriously.

“In fact,” added Nicholl, “it would have been easier to them than to us, and that for two reasons—­the first because the attraction is six times less on the surface of the moon than on the surface of the earth, which would allow a projectile to go up more easily; secondly the projectile would only have 8,000 leagues to travel instead of 80,000, which would require a force of propulsion ten times less.”

“Then,” resumed Michel, “I repeat—­why have they not done it?”

“And I,” replied Barbicane, “I repeat—­who says they have not done it?”

“When?”

“Hundreds of centuries ago, before man’s appearance upon earth.”

“And the bullet?  Where is the bullet?  I ask to see the bullet!”

“My friend,” answered Barbicane, “the sea covers five-sixths of our globe, hence there are five good reasons for supposing that the lunar projectile, if it has been fired, is now submerged at the bottom of the Atlantic or Pacific, unless it was buried down some abyss at the epoch when the earth’s crust was not sufficiently formed.”

“Old fellow,” answered Michel, “you have an answer to everything, and I bow before your wisdom.  There is one hypothesis I would rather believe than the others, and that is that the Selenites being older than we are wiser, and have not invented gunpowder at all.”

At that moment Diana claimed her share in the conversation by a sonorous bark.  She asked for her breakfast.

“Ah!” said Michel Ardan, “our arguments make us forget Diana and Satellite!”

A good dish of food was immediately offered to the dog, who devoured it with great appetite.

“Do you know, Barbicane,” said Michel, “we ought to have made this projectile a sort of Noah’s Ark, and have taken a couple of all the domestic animals with us to the moon.”

“No doubt,” answered Barbicane, “but we should not have had room enough.”

“Oh, we might have been packed a little tighter!”

“The fact is,” answered Nicholl, “that oxen, cows, bulls, and horses, all those ruminants would be useful on the lunar continent.  Unfortunately we cannot make our projectile either a stable or a cowshed.”

“But at least,” said Michel Ardan, “we might have brought an ass, nothing but a little ass, the courageous and patient animal old Silenus loved to exhibit.  I am fond of those poor asses!  They are the least favoured animals in creation.  They are not only beaten during their lifetime, but are still beaten after their death!”

“What do you mean by that?” asked Barbicane.

“Why, don’t they use his skin to make drums of?”

Barbicane and Nicholl could not help laughing at this absurd reflection.  But a cry from their merry companion stopped them; he was bending over Satellite’s niche, and rose up saying—­

“Good!  Satellite is no longer ill.”