“By the thirty-nine stars of the Union!” said Michel, “I have nothing but impracticable ideas to-day—­ideas worthy of J.T.  Maston!  But now I think of it, if we do not return to earth J.T.  Maston will certainly come to us!”

“Yes! he will come,” replied Barbicane; “he is a worthy and courageous comrade.  Besides, what could be easier?  Is not the Columbiad still lying in Floridian soil?  Is cotton and nitric acid wanting wherewith to manufacture the projectile?  Will not the moon again pass the zenith of Florida?  In another eighteen years will she not occupy exactly the same place that she occupies to-day?”

“Yes,” repeated Michel—­“yes, Maston will come, and with him our friends Elphinstone, Blomsberry, and all the members of the Gun Club, and they will be welcome!  Later on trains of projectiles will be established between the earth and the moon!  Hurrah for J.T.  Maston!”

It is probable that if the Honourable J.T.  Maston did not hear the hurrahs uttered in his honour his ears tingled at least.  What was he doing then?  He was no doubt stationed in the Rocky Mountains at Long’s Peak, trying to discover the invisible bullet gravitating in space.  If he was thinking of his dear companions it must be acknowledged that they were not behindhand with him, and that, under the influence of singular exaltation, they consecrated their best thoughts to him.

But whence came the animation that grew visibly greater in the inhabitants of the projectile?  Their sobriety could not be questioned.  Must this strange erethismus of the brain be attributed to the exceptional circumstances of the time, to that proximity of the Queen of Night from which a few hours only separated them, or to some secret influence of the moon acting on their nervous system?  Their faces became as red as if exposed to the reverberation of a furnace; their respiration became more active, and their lungs played like forge-bellows; their eyes shone with extraordinary flame, and their voices became formidably loud, their words escaped like a champagne-cork driven forth by carbonic acid gas; their gestures became disquieting, they wanted so much room to perform them in.  And, strange to say, they in no wise perceived this excessive tension of the mind.

“Now,” said Nicholl in a sharp tone—­“now that I do not know whether we shall come back from the moon, I will know what we are going there for!”

“What we are going there for!” answered Barbicane, stamping as if he were in a fencing-room; “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know!” cried Michel with a shout that provoked a sonorous echo in the projectile.

“No, I have not the least idea!” answered Barbicane, shouting in unison with his interlocutor.

“Well, then, I know,” answered Michel.

“Speak, then,” said Nicholl, who could no longer restrain the angry tones of his voice.

“I shall speak if it suits me!” cried Michel, violently seizing his companion’s arm.  “It must suit you!” said Barbicane, with eyes on fire and threatening hands.  “It was you who drew us into this terrible journey, and we wish to know why!”